


Game Night (Every Night)

by thesunshineunderground



Category: The Hating Game - Sally Thorne
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, THEY'RE BOTH SO SOFT, maybe smut?, sequel/drabbles, soft, there is no conflict here, there isn't even really any plot here, they had enough conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 95,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunshineunderground/pseuds/thesunshineunderground
Summary: Because I couldn't quit these two, and because there aren't nearly enough fics in this fandom, I had to write more. Picking up right after THG, this follows Lucy and Josh through a lot of things mentioned in the book, some things hinted at in the book, and some things that I couldn't resist.Basically just some soft, anxious dorks being in love with virtually no conflict.
Relationships: Lucy Hutton/Joshua Templeman
Comments: 470
Kudos: 466





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! this is my ~first ever fic~ so thank you! 
> 
> like these two nerds I am nervous and soft so I am very, very appreciative of your taking the time to read. I personally get nervous about unfinished fics (what if I *gasp* fall in love and then there isn't any more??) so double triple thanks on taking the chance, and I promise that I am ahead in writing and will not leave you hanging, though I'm not sure yet how many chapters there will be. 
> 
> xoxo ily

Chapter One

When my alarm goes off on Monday morning, I have three thoughts nearly simultaneously. First, it is uncommonly bright in my room. My kitchen gets all the good light in my apartment, and my tiny bedroom window is above my bed, with the curtains perennially drawn half to prevent the prying eyes of the neighbors whose window is directly opposite mine in one of those city architectural nightmares that maximized rent while minimizing the happiness of renters and half because opening the curtains required clamoring up on the footboard to reach. The furniture placement had been chosen to maximize book storage rather than to prioritize window access. 

Second, I am comfortable. Like, really comfortable, in a way that made chucking my ringing alarm across the too-bright room feel like a much better choice than dragging myself out of bed. 

The third thought put the previous two in jolting context. Holy shit. Holy _shit_. Joshua Templeman. 

It is bright, and I am comfortable, because I wasn’t home alone in bed. I was in Josh’s apartment. In _bed_ with _Josh_. 

Who _loved me_. 

While my internal organs completely rearranged themselves to this reality, the alarm tinnily continued piping “Walking on Sunshine,” which I had chosen in the (so far ineffectual) hope that it would make me into a cheerier morning person. 

“Shortcake,” Josh groans into the back of my neck. “Any chance that’s about to stop?”

I slap out at my phone, trying to corral morning spaghetti arms and the fact that, frankly, it had been a really weird weekend into something less than a flail, and roll over in a cloud of hair. I am rewarded with the sight of Josh’s sleepy smile, which I immediately tuck into my back pocket to keep safe and remember before a fourth thing occurs to me, with an even bigger jolt: I might not need to save them. I love Josh Templeman and he loves me back and he had gotten a job at Sanderson and I could have as many of his smiles as I wanted. I could _gorge_ myself on them. My greedy little heart skips. 

“Morning,” I squeak. 

Josh props himself up on an elbow, his other arm curling around my waist, one big hand slipping up the back of my Sleepysaurus t-shirt, now smelling of his fabric softener from last night’s emergency laundry round. His reach spans my low back, tugging me closer to him. “Morning, Shortcake,” he murmurs, bending his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the spot where my jaw meets my neck. I feel my blush in my entire body. Josh looks so unbearably pleased with himself that it borders on smugness before repeating himself, this time a few inches lower. I completely fail to keep a whimper inside. 

He grins, no longer looking nearly so sleepy, and bends towards me a third time, the look in his eyes suggesting that he would be happy to keep going over all the inches. I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. “You might be on vacation, but I’m not,” I remind him as he gives me a faux-pout. “I am, in fact, up for a major promotion this week. You may have heard about it. It’s very important and means I can’t be late.”

He nips my wrist playfully but relents, flopping back onto the bed. He’s not wearing a shirt, and for half a second I consider the merits of blowing up my career advancement prospects in order to stay right here and devour him for the next several days. 

I impress myself by rolling out of bed. 

Josh’s bathroom is done up in the same clean lines as the rest of his apartment, with gleaming tiles and sharp grey accents. Last night he had opened the small linen closet to reveal neat stacks of towels, half a dozen bars of the soap he had once told me Elaine sent him in bulk, and a little basket filled with assorted fresh toiletries. He had plucked a red toothbrush from a value pack and handed it to me. 

“I have my toothbrush with me, from this weekend,” I had pointed out. 

He had shrugged, as if to say _it’s just a toothbrush, Lucinda_ , like it wasn’t a big deal, but I knew his face well enough to realize that it was a little bit of a big deal. He had spent so much of the evening talking me down from my massive freak out that I had neglected his own insecurities. I had given him my best smile and taken the toothbrush. 

At the time, I had told myself I was doing it for the sake of shy-Josh hiding behind unaffected-Josh, but seeing it this morning, sitting there next to his green one in his toothbrush holder sent a flicker of _something_ through me. It is the inverse of what I had been feeling these last weeks, the sense that we had been hurtling towards a cliff, into a lake full of piranhas. It feels good. 

I feel less good when I catch a view of my hair in the mirror. Josh’s conditioner is _abysmal_. 

By the time I have put on last Friday’s clothes, which also now smell just like Josh’s laundry, and put on my makeup and perfume (less Flamethrower, which will keep until after tea and breakfast), Josh has made the bed with neat hospital corners and is moving around the kitchen. He’s wearing the navy shirt, unbuttoned, and I nearly pass out.

“That’s out of order,” I accuse to cover my reaction. “And your terrible man conditioner is ruining my hair.” 

When he kisses me, he tastes of coffee. “We can’t have that, Shortcake. I love your hair.” He tugs playfully on a curl. I am drunk on this loose version of him. Looking down at his own unbuttoned shirt, he shrugs. “You cracked the code. I am in a transition period while I figure out a new way to send secret messages with my wardrobe.”

The kettle on the stove starts to whistle. He directs me to the cabinet where he keeps the tea and I start to rummage through it as he takes his turn in the bathroom. There’s a pan of fluffy scrambled eggs on the stove, and I help myself, funneling them into my mouth as my tea steeps. The eggs are infuriatingly delicious. 

When Josh emerges, he is the version of himself that makes accountants cry and causes managers twice his age to run for cover. I am pleased to be able to admit that it is a staggeringly hot look. “You’re on vacation. Why are you dressed like you’re having a real Monday?” I arch an eyebrow at him over my mug. “Is this a panicked response to too much change in too little time? Are you experiencing distress at taking a break from predictability?” I gasp in delight. “Are _you_ freaking out this time?”

He frowns, but he doesn’t mean it. Now that he’s admitted he likes my taunts, he can’t take it back. “I actually have some exit paperwork to sign for Jeanette. And I have to clear out my desk.” His frown wobbles. “It turns out that when you dramatically quit your job in a romantic gesture that’s part of a grand plan to convince a beautiful girl to love you back, there’s some bureaucracy involved.” I beam. “Besides, your car is still in the parking lot at B&G.”

“I could take a bus.”

“I’m on vacation. I’m allowed to do whatever I want. And what I want is to drive you to work.”

He scoops himself some eggs, and then dumps the remainder from the frying pan onto my mostly-empty plate. We play the Staring Game over our breakfasts. I try to remember that this is only the first day, and if I let myself die now, I will miss out on a lot. But when his knee bumps mine under the table, I maybe die a little anyway.

***

On the way to B&G, I fuss with my too-dry hair in the rearview mirror, and apply my lipstick more slowly than usual, mindful of the occasional jostles of the car. When I pull the tissue out of where I’ve stashed it in my bra and prepare to blot, Josh makes a strangled sound. I glance over at him. His knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. I am tingly and smug knowing he wants me just as bad as I want him. I apply my second coat even more slowly. 

“You’re going to make me get into an accident, Shortcake,” he growls. 

“You’ve seen me do this a million times,” I say primly, inspecting my work in the mirror. 

He pulls into the spot next to my car, which looks even more sad after a few days absence, and drops his head onto the steering wheel for a moment. “This is how I felt every time, Lucinda. I’m just not as invested in hiding it anymore.” 

I am seven feet tall. I am Josh tall. My ego is so massive I have to open the car and get out, just to give it space. 

The elevator is so fraught with memories of the first time that Josh and I kissed that I stare at the ceiling and recite the different Smurfs in my head until we reach the tenth floor. He seems to need the moment to breathe as much as I do. We gather the thinnest veneer of professionalism. 

When we emerge into our mirrored box, Fat Little Dick is hovering in his office doorway, holding a massive coffee and a doughnut. He snorts when he sees us. I try to muster up the energy to care about the optics of leaving with Josh on Friday night and showing up with him on Monday morning wearing the same outfit, but I can’t quite manage it. “Good morning, Mr. Bexley,” I say levelly. 

“Richard,” Josh says. He is sporting a major case of Serial Killer Eyes. 

Mr. Bexley snorts again, but it sounds a little less stable. “Lucy, I’ll need you to cover my phones until I can find a replacement assistant.”

“I’ll route Josh’s phone to my desk.” 

It is clearly driving Bexley insane that I am not being overly deferential to him. Even though Josh is keeping his glare firmly on his former boss, I know I have his approval, and it bolsters me. Bexley blinks heavily, as if trying to wake himself up from the bizarro-world he has woken up into, before turning to Josh. “Make sure you turn in your security pass before you leave, _Doctor Josh_.” 

Josh doesn’t respond, doesn’t blink. Bexley retreats to his office and closes the door. 

For a beat, we still both stand there, just outside the elevator doors, twin versions of ourselves staring back at us. I fight a sudden urge to giggle. “How long do you think he was waiting there?” I whisper. 

Josh finally blinks, but none of the tension leaves his body. He’s still in full asshole mode. “He’d better not mess with you. I’m serious,” he adds, finally looking at me when I gently nudge his arm with my shoulder. “I could rip his fucking pervert head off.” 

“I do still work here,” I comment mildly. 

He deflates. “Right. Sorry.” The corner of his mouth curls in that little expression that was once the kind of victory that could sustain me for days. My appetite has stretched now, though I’m still pleased to be the catalyst for his reactions. 

For a few minutes, things are usual, albeit a nicer version of usual. I log into my computer (password SUK-IT-JOSH-T, which I will have to change), and skim through the emails that have amassed in my inbox over the weekend. Aside from one marked urgent from Danny, leftover from when I was ignoring my phone on Saturday, there’s nothing of particular note. 

I loll in my chair, spinning idly towards Josh, who has produced a folded-up reusable bag from the pocket of his coat. He’s packing up his tin of mints, his planner, and the plain black mug he uses--used!--for his coffee. I feel an unexpected surge of sadness and stare up at my reflection in the ceiling, reminding myself that things have turned out beyond my wildest expectations when I feel a prickle at the back of my eyes. 

“Too bad you don’t know anyone who would bring you those many, important items,” I remark to my ceiling-self. 

I watch ceiling Josh walk towards me, until all I see is the top of his head and his knees inches from mine. “You’re going to kill those interviews, Luce,” he says. I don’t meet his eyes. “And then I will save Sanderson to give you a run for your money.” He’s smiling, I can hear it. I’ve never heard him smile in here. 

I blink twice, forcefully, then look at him when I have myself under control. “I’m being dramatic,” I sigh. 

“You’re being _very_ dramatic,” he agrees. 

Standing like this, he’s not just tall, not even just very tall, but massive. Gigantic. My neck nearly snaps off. I’m not afraid of his size anymore. 

I sigh again, because I am being ridiculous. I sigh for a third time, out of sheer self-indulgence. 

Josh’s look is fond. I might be a little psycho, but he doesn’t hate it. 

“Will I see you later?” he asks. For an instant, he looks uncertain, before hiding it behind the mask. I am reminded that he has been waiting longer than I have. He is so beautiful I could cry. I want to make him feel certain, certain, certain. I want him to know that I am a clingy little monster who has been starved for human companionship and his human companionship in particular. 

I smile at him. It’s a currency between us. I will make him rich with it. “Yes. I’ll come by after work?”

“I’ll make dinner.” 

We smile dopily at each other because we are stupid, lovesick fools. 

With a darted glance at Fat Little Dick’s office, he bends down and presses a kiss to my cheek, grazing the corner of my mouth. It is so appropriate I could howl. 

He strides decisively to the elevator and a few moments later, he’s gone. I shake my head at my own reflection and turn to my work.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new fics need a little momentum, imo, and I am well ahead writing (and also an eager goose) so a rapid update it is! 
> 
> be aware: there is some ~sexy stuff~ in the last chunk of this, all past the last set of stars. I think it still fits under the M rating, but if folks would feel more comfortable and/or think that an E rating is more appropriate, please feel free to give a shout!! skip if it isn't your jam. I wish for you all to read only the fic content that brings you joy! 
> 
> thanks for reading! I've heard a rumor that you (yes you) have great taste, so I'm doubly flattered. xo

Chapter Two

If I thought that Josh being gone--or things being a little less acrimonious between us--would make me more productive, I was delusional. I look over to his empty desk about thirty-seven times an hour. I have twice the work I had before and I am an utter disaster. 

When Helene arrives slightly after nine, she is wearing navy pedal pushers and a blue blouse so pale it’s almost white. She looks incredible and when she looks at me, genuine delight crosses her face. She is a great boss and a good friend, and I am so relieved that, no matter what happens with the promotion, I won’t end up unemployed. That’s a gift Josh gave me. It would be torture to work under an outside hire, and I would start looking for a new job, but I wouldn’t be so locked in by my past rash pride that I couldn’t take a moment to regroup and get a job within my skillset. 

I have more to lose, now. Moving home is no longer the same option it was. It is staggering to realize that Josh matters more to me than my pride, but it also feels right. 

“Morning!” I say with all the brightness I denied Fat Little Dick. 

Helene raises one perfectly-arched eyebrow. Shit, I want to be her. “Nice weekend?” she asks mildly. She’s so classy. 

“Lovely,” I say. “I went to a friend’s wedding. It was beautiful.”

Her smile reminds me of Elaine’s at the wedding this weekend. She’s a secret romantic, too. “Glad to hear it. You’re not too swamped with--” she tilts her head ominously at Bexley’s door “--dealing with two CEOs? I know it’s hard to suddenly be pulled in two directions.” The hint of a scowl crosses her face, gone as soon as it appears. 

“I’m sure Josh can fill me in on anything I need to know,” I reply smoothly. “We’ll remain in contact.”

Helene looks thrilled. I adore her. I am obsessed with her. “Glad to hear that  _ Josh  _ is being so accommodating,” she says. “A smooth transition between positions is no small thing.” Her grin grows every so slightly wicked, and I don’t think I’m imagining the innuendo. 

She breezes past me--I have to believe that she breezes everywhere she goes--and pauses in the door of her office. Her sense of drama--not too little, but not overstated--is pitch-perfect and only adds to my adoration. “It’s a new beginning for you, darling,” she intones. “I see great things. I kept you trapped as my assistant for too long. You’re going to have it all.” And then she disappears into her office, but not before I see a hint of emotion. 

Two minutes after her door clicks shut, I find myself glancing at Josh’s empty desk and do my best to pull myself together. 

***

By the end of the day, I have pillaged my snack drawer within an inch of its life. I will have to restock, and also maybe drag Joshua on an instruction course on proper snacking maintenance. Also, I vow to never leave home with a food-barren purse again. I am cheerfully noshing my way through a ziploc of almonds when my phone buzzes. 

**Danny Fletcher:** Are you still coming by after work to discuss the *secret project*?? Or should I take my being threatened to heart?

I silently recite all the swear words I know. I had completely forgotten about Danny, even with this morning’s email. 

**Lucy Hutton:** Can I stop by to discuss but ask for a rain check on the pizza? Can we meet back at the Starbucks across from B&G, if it’s not too much trouble?

He sends back the thumbs up emoji. 

I text Josh. 

**Lucy Hutton:** I am meeting Danny for a few minutes at the Starbucks near work. It is WORK RELATED. 

**Lucy Hutton:** I am not asking permission. I’m just telling you why I’ll be a little late. 

Josh responds almost immediately. He is not built for vacation. 

**Joshua Templeman:** Okay

The dots that indicate he’s typing appear, then disappear, then appear again. 

**Joshua Templeman:** Give him a mean look from me

I send back an assortment of angry emojis. 

**Joshua Templeman:** All of those, yes

I clutch my phone to my chest. I can just imagine his furrowed brow as he tries to be supportive despite his clear hatred of Danny. 

**Lucy Hutton:** He’s doing me a favor but I promise at least three frowns 

**Joshua Templeman:** I agree to your terms only because I will earn at least four smiles later tonight

**Joshua Templeman:** eat that, Fletcher

I send back some heart emojis. Joshua Templeman deserves to be reminded that I love him for him. He deserves to be reminded that I love him at all. 

***

Things go smoothly with Danny. I’m right, but so is Josh: Danny is open to being friends, but he’s also open to more, if I gave him an indication that I was interested in that. I put on my best professional attitude and he responds in kind. In another life, I would absolutely be dating Danny. In this life, if I had a female friend--I think, with a pang, of Val--I would absolutely be talking up my friend Danny as a potential date. There’s something about a guy who lets you break up with him without being a real dick about it that makes you hope he won’t get broken up with too often by people other than you. 

A flurry of texts later, which largely have to do with conditioner, and Josh ends up agreeing to meet back at my place. I am flattered by the knowledge that breaking up his meal plan clearly pains him, but that he doesn’t bring it up once. I make a feverish, frenetic stop at the grocery store on my way home and end up with nothing that will make a cohesive meal. I am disturbed by my own lack of planning. 

When Josh arrives, some fifteen minutes after I do, he has a bundle of swiss chard, some carrots, and a red onion. His ingredients don’t make a meal, either, but they somehow compliment the things that I’ve purchased. I prep ingredients on his instructions and we end up producing a lovely soup. I am tempted to return to my old habits of hating him based on his competence alone until I taste how good it is. 

That night, Josh unravels me slowly until I tell him every detail about the filthy dream I’d had weeks before. Once I tell him, he unravels me in the specific ways that my subconscious has conjured. It is the first time in my life where reality is hotter than fantasy. When Josh leans just enough of his weight on me that I feel enveloped in it but not so much that it crushes me I can barely catch my breath. When he begins to whisper filthy things in my ear I tremble. When he rocks his hips against me, holding my hands gently but firmly in his over my head, speaking a language of love and sex and hungry long-denied desire, I come. Twice. With my clothes on. 

We take a gasping break, while he recounts to me the most recent installments of my mom’s blog. It is strange, but not unpleasant, to hear Josh tell me about my own family. It feels intimate. The way he talks about Sky Diamond is so soft that it rewrites the months of thinking he was mocking my provincial background. He murmurs that tomorrow we will eat strawberries together so sweetly that I can already taste them. I can’t believe how long I believed that he hated me. He wasn’t lying when he said he was a good actor, but his telling the truth feels so much truer that it makes the lies feel like bad photographs of reality. I kiss and lick under the curve of his draw and he hardens again beneath me. 

By the time we fall asleep, his mouth pressed to the back of my neck in a mirror of the way we woke up, we have torn each other to bits twice more. Four smiles indeed. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's interview day! Also, I'm obsessed with the parents Hutton.

Chapter Three

I spend Tuesday night back at Josh’s place and am no longer shocked by the bright wake-up in his robin’s-egg blue room. Wednesday night I gather up the reserves of responsibility and spend the night at home, alone, to prepare for my interview. I have been over my presentation a thousand times, and Danny’s ebook and financial materials a thousand times more, but I have not gotten to this point by being careless, shenanigans with Josh aside. This is my dream, and I have worked for it. I am prepared to still work for it. But I am also ready and full of ideas to make B&G great. 

I interrupt my preparation intermittently to shamelessly pester Josh for a photo. He resists with enough humor that I suspect he is secretly pleased that I am asking, but I am about to give up in deference to his shyness when he sends me an incredibly tame shot of him at the gym. It shows half his face, the corner of his mouth twitched up in wry self-deprecation, and the curve of his shoulder. Behind him is a Hulk Hogan lookalike. 

I have to lay back on my bed and breathe deeply for a count of a hundred. 

I manage to review for another hour after that before a Skype icon pops up at the right of my screen. My parents. I haven’t talked to them in nearly a week, which is longer than usual. It isn’t until I accept the call and see myself in the tiny window at the bottom of the view that I realize how frazzled I look. Maybe I’m more stressed about the interview than I want to admit. 

“Hi!” I sound slightly erratic. I take a breath and feel a little more grounded. “Sorry we haven’t talked in a while!”

“Smurfette!” my dad calls, while my mom blows me kisses. “Are you ready for your interview tomorrow? Ready to blow Jonathan out of the water?” 

I give a half wince while my mom cuts my eyes at my dad. I can’t decide what’s more complicated: that my mom immediately sees through me or that I’m going to have to explain to my dad the sudden ways things have changed between me and Josh, and why they’re actually so sudden at all. It means admitting my denial. 

A moment passes, and then another. My dad starts to look between my mom and the computer screen, gradually realizing that he has missed something. “Smurfette?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”

I smile, but even in the tiny window it looks insincere. It isn’t doubt about Josh, I just feel so unsettled about not being clear with my dad. I have spent so long trying to hide my loneliness from him, from both my parents, that it feels like a weird mix of relief and distress to come clean. “I’m fine,” I assure them. “I’m great, actually. A little anxious about tomorrow’s interview, but…” 

I trail off and take a deep breath. My parents wait patiently; my mom smiles encouragingly, but with the tiniest bit of sadness. I’m reminded of what she gave up to have love, happiness, a family. I am so grateful that I don’t have to do the same. If I lose the promotion, it is my own to lose. I was never in competition with Josh, not in a real way. I am fortunate that he wants to work with me, not against me, or askance to me, or even parallel to me. 

“Things have actually kind of changed with Josh.” 

My mom’s mouth twitches into a smile. My dad looks confused, but is clearly trying to fight it. I’m not sure he’s ever heard me call Josh by the shortened version of his name. I feel warm and scared and happy all at once and have a sudden flash to Josh’s inadvertently sexy photo from earlier. God, I love him. 

“What do you mean?” my mom encourages. She leans her head back until she’s out of my dad’s line of sight and then nods, clearly forgetting that he can see her in the self-view window. They are not a subtle people. I clearly came by my dramatics honestly. 

My dad resumes bouncing his gaze between my mom and me, increasingly aware that the women in his life are in on something that he is blind to. “Well,” I say, and his gaze lasers in on the screen, “it turns out that we have more in common than we thought. Josh and I actually...kind of like each other.” I decide, in the moment, to ease them in on the idea of love. I am either a disaster or a genius. 

“Oh?” my mom says. I immediately resolve to get her a really, really nice birthday present. The warmth in her face reassures me. I’m reminded that my parents love me enough that they would support me even if I announced that I had decided to follow the ways of the Unibomber. It’s misguided, but a comforting sort of misguided. 

“Yeah,” I say. “We talked and it turns out that a lot of the animosity between us was based on a bit of...miscommunication.” This understates a lot, but I’m not sure how to recount the whole story.  _ Well, as it happens, Josh was in love with me, but he’s an anxious shy boy who has been conditioned by his dad--a worse father than you, Dad, imagine having an unsupportive father!--who made him think he wasn’t good enough and so instead of just  _ telling  _ me that he loved me from the start he decided that his best move was to be kind of a huge asshole and then I responded in kind because I have a hard time dealing with people who don’t like me, but ultimately this promotion led him to realize that he had a limited time to make me love him back but it turned out that while he loved me the whole time and knew it, I loved him the whole time and didn’t know it, but now we have admitted it to each other and now we are dating _ . 

My parents are great, but that seems like a lot for any parents to take. 

I decided to lead with Josh’s positives. “He actually ended up getting a job at--don’t tell anyone!--a rival publisher. So it’s down to me and some outside candidates for the COO job.” I clear my throat. Why do I sound so shady? These are my parents. “He and I actually sorted out a lot of stuff this weekend. I was his plus-one to his brother’s wedding.” 

My mom looks delighted. My dad looks pleased and on his way to delighted, like he’s still catching up. I think of Anthony, and I think of Josh’s accidentally sexy photo, and I think about how one day, maybe one day soon, I can introduce him to my parents. I think about how he told me that “of course” I would meet his family again. I catch a glimpse of my own blush in the corner screen. I think about all the times I have talked shit about him to my parents. I think about all the times I have talked shit about him to myself, and am relieved to realize that they will see his finer qualities the way that I have. I am grateful and happy to have such wonderful parents. 

“That sounds...nice,” my dad says. 

“Really nice,” my mom affirms more enthusiastically. My dad gives a tiny jolt, and I suspect she has pinched him under the table. 

He glances at her and responds to the genuine emotion in her expression. “I’m glad he’s finally seen the truth of how great you are, Smurfette,” he says. I don’t feel totally at peace with my parents’ history, and the sacrifice that my mom had to make to have us, giving up her dreams--but I am reassured by the absolute faith and certainty in my dad’s expression. My mom is sure, and that’s good enough for my dad. He trusts her absolutely. He trusts me absolutely. It isn’t necessarily enough to make up for the loss that my mom has been dealt, but it isn’t nothing. 

Two weeks ago I felt so lonely but now--now I feel so surrounded by love. 

We are all looking at each other with beguiling adoration. “Well,” my dad clears his throat, “maybe we ought to meet this Joshua.” He uses Josh’s real name! I feel a thrill. “Maybe you ought to bring him, when you come visit over the long weekend.” He clears his throat again, but this one is clearly for my sake. “You know, if you feel like he’s someone you want us to meet.”

I love my parents. I love my parents. I love my parents so much I could scream. 

“Yeah,” I say. “I think he is. He just started a new job, but I’ll see if he can come. I’d really love for you to meet him. I think…” I also clear my throat, because genetics is real. “I think you’d really like to know him. I’m glad that I finally do.”

My eyes prickle. It’s been a weepy week. 

“We would too, my love,” my mom says, her head leaning down on my dad’s shoulder. I suspect that she’s known a little more about my loneliness that I have admitted. “We would too.”

My dad nods eagerly. 

“We love anybody who you love, who is good to you,” my mom adds. 

“Thanks, Mom.” My voice is thick. Maybe it is good, to get all this emotion out prior to the interviews. “Thanks, Dad. You guys are the best. I miss you so much.” 

“We miss you too, kiddo,” my dad says. He looks a little reassured that we are back on familiar ground, and I can relate to his desire to be on stable emotional territory. “So, tell us about your interview plan for tomorrow!” 

We talk for a little while longer, and after we hang up, I text Josh goodnight. I feel like the Grinch after his heart has grown three sizes. The world has flipped upside down and it has put everything right. I send both parties three heart emojis, and they both send three hearts back. Mine real one thumps, too. 

***

The morning of my interview, I wake up like a live wire. Josh, the type-A little dork, is already up and has texted me “wreck them, you’ve got this, I love you.” I am a morning person for the first time since Christmas when I was eight. Unlike the genuine child energy of that long-gone Christmas, though, it’s a wired sort of energy. I had weird, restless dreams starring Bexley and anonymous financial superstars paired with high-energy sexual dreams starring me and Josh. I am an addict and also a neurotic. 

I drink three cups of tea and change my outfit twice. I end up wearing something that makes me feel like a blend of powerful and  _ myself _ , like a deranged librarian who has found herself suddenly in a position of power. In the mirror, I reassure myself that I will find myself in a position of power. Not suddenly, but because I kicked ass for years to get there. 

These thoughts are not dissimilar to the affirming texts that Josh sent me late last night, when I sent him a flurry of stressed-out thoughts. I additionally gather up a few more affirming thoughts that come from me alone. 

By the time Flamethrower is perfectly applied I am feeling astonishingly stable. This promotion is mine. 

My interview is at eleven, and Helene told me not to come in until it was time for me to speak to the hiring board. I decided not to ask Mr. Bexley, even though I know he’s not on my side, and that a little goodwill from him might go a long way. He definitely would have told me to come in at eight thirty, and I definitely would have freaked myself out all morning. I chose the lesser of two evils.

I eat my breakfast slowly while scrolling though Smurfs on ebay. Nothing particularly catches my interest. My eggs suck compared to Josh’s. I send him a picture and let him know how deeply I hate him for being so much better at cooking than me. 

**Joshua Templeman:** liar

**Joshua Templeman:** future COO liar

**Joshua Templeman:** don’t forget to pack snacks! I love you

I have complained to him no fewer than four times about the depletion of my snack drawer. I threw a few more granola bars in my purse just in case. 

**Lucy Hutton:** thank you for your commitment to caring about my food intake 

**Joshua Templeman:** you need your energy to destroy your competition 

He sent a series of emojis. I am in paroxysms of delight. 

***

Because I was now responsible for both Bexley’s and Helene’s calendars, I knew that I was the last of three interviews. When I arrived on the seventh floor, I learned that the hiring committee was running late. I had planned to arrive ten minutes early, just in case. The additional seventeen minutes I wait are torture. 

Torture.

After what was definitely a thousand years, plus or minus a century, Casey, the VP of finance, opens the conference room door. An astonishingly bland corporate type--a Bexley if I ever saw one--shakes her hand on the way out. Casey makes a few seconds of small talk with him, impassively, then brightens when she greets me. “Lucy! Come on in.”

I stand, smooth my skirt, and follow her into the conference room. Helene, Bexley, and a selection of various B&G VPs, plus a neutral corporate headhunter, greet me. Five of the seven faces--Bexley and the VP of publicity, who is a notoriously hard nut to crack, but a secret lemon bar enthusiast--smile back at me, Helene’s the most exuberant. 

I greet them all, by name, and launch into my proposal to digitize the B&G backlist. I show off Danny’s formatting, emphasizing my relationship with current and former B&G employees, doing my best to pitch some business Danny’s way, no matter how this shakes out for me. The finished product, plus the thorough spreadsheets about what this will cost in the long term, earn me some approving nods. I emphasize my contacts and demonstrate my knowledge of the B&G backlists. 

I feel strong. I am charming, but not deferential. I know what I am talking about. My ideas are good. If I don’t get this job, it isn’t because I haven’t done a good job. If they pick someone else, it isn’t because I haven’t prepared enough or cared hard enough. It’s a good presentation, and the panel knows it. 

By the time I’m finished, everyone but Bexley has nodded appreciatively at least once. Even Fat Little Dick looks like he has to try to be disapproving. 

I thank them, shake a round of hands, give smiles that are warm but not docile, and then return to the tenth floor to finish the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i found like four typos on my way to post this, which makes me think there are more. forgive me. i have not edited...at all, really. 
> 
> (you rule and are also clever and cute! xo)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's decision day at B&G!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to have heartfelt convos

Chapter Four

Joshua Templeman is terrible at vacation (“I am great at real vacation,” he mutters grumpily when I point this out while he’s cooking dinner. “You make me sound so  _ boring _ , Shortcake. I just don’t like sitting around with nothing to do.”) and Thursday night we are both filled with frenetic energy. 

When I get to Josh’s apartment that evening, it is  _ disturbingly  _ clean. As I thinly slice onions for the creamy pasta dish that Josh is masterminding, taken directly from his Tuscany villa fantasy, I can still smell the sharp tang of cleaning products. I have a flash of the tiny trail of chaos I left behind in my own apartment, a messy history of my night spent in interview prep. 

I am chopping too slowly. Josh keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He slides me a little bowl of wasabi peas, which I suspect he has been saving for this exact situation, and when I lay down the knife to pick at my snack, he snatches up the onion and cutting board and starts slicing with a ruthless efficiency that is both faster and better than the job I was doing. I crunch on the wasabi peas until they burn my tongue. We are both happier with our new jobs. 

I hop up on the counter and kick my heels gently against the cabinets. Josh didn’t change after the gym, and his sleeveless athletic shirt frames his biceps, which bulge as he chops. I ogle him shamelessly. 

He glances over at me, does a double take. His chopping stutters. “That is a bad case of Horny Eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I am arch. I love this game. 

He lets out a slow breath. I inspect the residual wasabi dust on my fingertips and then lick it off. Slowly. Josh puts down the knife. 

Tormenting him is my favorite sport. I am the gold medalist. Our games are so much better now that we have admitted the stakes of what we’re playing for. I cross my legs and my skirt rides up a few inches. They are an important few inches, inches that make the difference between appropriate interview length and...not. 

Josh very deliberately turns to the sink and washes his hands. By the time he’s done, he has drawn up his body with the kind of steel resolution that spells trouble for me. He puts one big hand on each of my knees and gently but firmly uncrosses them.

He steps between my legs. He takes the bowl of peas out of my hands and places it behind me. He leans in close but doesn’t touch me. 

I can’t breathe. 

“Don’t you know what I’m talking about, Lucinda?” He smells of mint and good cooking and Josh. “You’re a very smart woman, so somehow I find that hard to believe.” He hasn’t blinked. I have blinked a ridiculous number of times. I am losing the Staring Game so badly. “Do you know what I do believe?”

“No.” I sound like a cartoon mouse. I have never liked losing so much. 

He takes a step closer. I can feel the heat of him through my clothes. When I breathe, we are touching. I would hold my breath, except I think I would pass out. 

“I believe that you know exactly what I’m talking about. I believe you like tormenting me. Is that true? Do you like tormenting me, Lucinda?” He skims his nose down the side of my jaw. It’s the only place we are touching, but we are  _ almost  _ touching everywhere else. His hands are on either side of my hips, bracketing where I sit. My eyes close. I don’t even know if I decided to close them. “Well, Lucinda? Do you like tormenting me?”

“Yes,” I breathe. 

I feel his smile. He’s enjoying himself. He presses a featherlight kiss to my throat. 

“Don’t you think there should be some retribution for that, Lucinda?” It should be against the law, the way he keeps saying my name. I try to remember a time when I hated that he insisted using my full name, but my brain isn’t working. “Isn’t that how we play? Quid pro quo?” 

I am dying. I am dying and that is why it takes me several tries to say, “No?” 

“No?” His question sounds so much more sure than mine. “I think you’re lying again. Trying to get out of what I have coming your way.” He curves a hand around the small of my back, tugs me forward. I lose the power of speech. He gently bites the curve of my shoulder. 

I whimper. I will somehow get him back for all this. He hoists me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. He’s strong enough to hold me up with one arm, and he uses the other to flip off the burners. I squirm against him. He clutches me tighter. I lick the side of his neck and he tastes faintly of salt. There are a thousand sensations in the time it takes to move to the couch. 

He lays me down and settles in on top of me, one leg propped on the floor, the other extended down long, tangled with mine. He braces on his elbows and weaves his fingers in my hair. I swear that his eyes are darker than usual. I am so turned on it almost hurts. I try to pull him down to kiss me, but he stops me when our lips just barely touch. Stupid Easter egg control. He is so pleased with himself it’s sickening. 

“Turnabout is fair play, Shortcake,” he murmurs against my mouth. 

“Please.” I am so desperate I barely even care about how completely I am sacrificing my pride. 

“Sorry, what was that?” He is so, so smug. I hate him. I am burning up with my hatred for him but he is burning up with me. His voice is still steady, but I can feel him. I can feel it in how he leans on me a little more heavily, in how he gets harder as I melt softer, in the slight tremor in his hands. I love him. 

“Josh.” It comes out on a whine. “Please. Kiss me. God.” Pride is worthless anyway. 

He finally kisses me. It is not soft. I moan into his mouth. “I love you, Shortcake,” he gasps out in between kisses. One of his hands plays with the top of my stocking, the other making soft circles with his thumb behind my ear. “Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ Lucy.” 

I try to tell him I love him too, but his mouth is glued to mine. So I tell him with my fingers in his hair, with scratches up his back, with hips thrust up into his. I write it with my tongue on his.  _ I love all your parts, you lunatic asshole _ , I tell him.  _ I adore you, you sweet, shy, messy boy. You thoughtful, brilliant man _ . He hears me, I know he does. 

By the time we end up eating dinner, it is very late, and our frantic energy is a little settled. 

***

It turns out that I never knew my own capacity for hatred. I thought I hated Josh all those months. All the times he made those little comments that made it into my HR log, gave me his angry glares, made fun of my outfits--I thought that was hatred. And sure, it turned out to be hatred that covered up love, but at the time, it had felt like very genuine hatred.

That was nothing compared to how much I hate working for Mr. Bexley. 

Fat Little Dick, in the week that I have been covering as his assistant, has demonstrated heretofore unseen levels of assholishness. He had long been more of a dick to Josh than I had strictly realized before I learned the history behind the whole “Doctor Josh” stuff--I feel a hot flash of rage just thinking about Bexley pushing on Josh’s soft spots--but I am only now beginning to realize the level of bastardry that Bexley is capable of. 

It isn’t just the usual sexist bullshit, either, although that’s still well in effect. When I went down to meet with Jeanette in HR, she was initially wary (which I suppose I can’t blame her for, given my history of shenanigans) but increasingly sympathetic. “I know it sucks to tell you to do this,” she said, “but I think you should wait until you’re a fellow executive to file a complaint. You’ll have more leverage then, and the complaint will matter more to the board of directors. They won’t pay as much attention if it’s coming from an assistant.” She sighed heavily. “It’s crap, but you’re right that this needs a paper trail. Can you hang in there for a few more days?”

I assure her that I can, and use her certainty that the position is mine to sustain me. I ask Bexley what he’s looking at three separate times. He at least has the dignity to look a little embarrassed. 

Even more than that, though, is his general incompetence, paired with his absolute conviction that he never makes a mistake. He asks for documents that I have already sent and gets testy when I tell him he already has them. He loses things, and insists I’ve never given them to him. He demands I bring him coffee, even though it is far below my pay grade. He gives me sour looks when I am doing things for Helene. He is so pissy that even Helene loses her cool: “For fuck’s sake, Richard, she’s  _ my _ assistant! She’s doing you a favor covering your desk, so get a goddamned grip and act like a decent person for once!” 

I send Josh a thousand rage-filled texts a day. He is generally unrepentant about his abrupt departure from B&G (“Companies don’t give you two weeks notice when they fire you, Shortcake, so you don’t owe them notice when you go. Also, fuck Bexley.”) but I do think he feels a little bad about saddling me with his old boss. 

On Friday morning, my hatred of Bexley has reached a new depth. 

I only have it from Josh’s account of Bexley’s offhand comment that decisions would come in today, and that was before the interviews, so it is possible that things have changed. It is possible that I’ll have to wait a good long while before I hear. But either Bexley knows something or he suspects that Josh told me about what he said about today being the day, because every time he sees me he makes this sort of wet, snorting sound. 

Every time he does it, it’s reflected back to me in triplicate. 

I am trying to get things done, but instead I am indulging in an elaborate fantasy in which Fat Little Dick trips while getting a cup of coffee, slips in it, and slides on his stomach across the shiny, chrome floors until he crashes into a wall. When he sits up, a little dazed, the coffee splash makes it look like he has peed his pants. 

In my fantasy, I see  _ that  _ in triplicate. It reduces my rage by approximately three percent. 

He is clearly screwing with me on purpose, and as the morning meanders on, my nerves continue to mount. By the time Helene swans in a little after ten, I have already devoured an entire day’s worth of snacks: a little ziploc of almonds, rosemary crackers, three mini chocolate bars with peanuts and nougat, and two packets of roasted seaweed that I have been stealing from Josh. I hurriedly brush some errant crumbs off my desk as she enters. They end up looking even more obvious across my skirt. I am so cool. 

“Darling!” Because Helene actually is cool, she tactfully ignores my awkwardness. “Come sit with me a moment, in my office.” 

Bexley appears in the doorway of his office, like some sort of evil premonition, and snorts for what must be the thirtieth time. I am suddenly sure that I’m not getting the promotion. 

“Of course!” My tone sounds false, even to me. “I’ll be right there.” 

Helene gives me a smile that I can’t decipher. She disappears into her office. Bexley slams his door. I take a series of deep breaths and stare up at the ceiling until I feel like the prickling at the back of my eyes is under control. I will be poised and professional and then I will send out my resume to every publishing house in the city. 

I stand, brush the crumbs off my skirt, and paste on a smile before entering Helene’s office. 

It is coming on winter quickly, but she’s wearing a white skirt that reaches down to mid-calf. It is typically spotless, as if even city sidewalk muck realizes she’s too classy to touch, and she has managed to lounge in her office chair without wrinkling it. She is the picture of insouciance as she waves for me to close the door behind me. 

She has one of those miniature espresso makers in a little corner of her office and she slides me a shot of espresso in a perfectly sized ceramic mug. It’s on a matching saucer. God knows how she managed to make it so fast. 

“So, listen, darling, we’re due down in the conference room on six this afternoon, but I wanted to speak with you myself, first.” I try not to wince as I sip the bitter espresso. She’s trying to break it to me gently. Helene smiles broadly and leans toward me. “Congratulations, Lucy. You are the next COO--the first COO, I should add--of Bexley and Gamin publishing.”

My ears are ringing. 

Helene keeps talking. “If I’m being honest, it wasn’t even close. Obviously it wasn’t  _ unanimous _ \--” she glares ominously at the wall towards Bexley’s office “--but your project with Danny Fletcher really showed that you know the company and the profession. I’m not saying the others weren’t good.” It’s starting to actually sink in what she’s saying. I clutch the espresso cup so tightly I’m lucky it doesn’t shatter. “But yours really went above and beyond, not to mention I was positively accosted by nearly every department head who all just simply  _ had  _ to let me know that I would be  _ simply mad  _ not to hire you. Even some of the ones you wouldn’t think.”

I finally find my voice. “Helene. I...thank you. This is everything I could dream of. Thank you.”

When I meet her eyes, they’re sparkling. I immediately feel mine start to prickle again. “No,” she says. “Do not thank me, darling. This was  _ you _ . It was  _ all you. _ ” We both look away for a moment, and I blink hard a few times. “I already told you how sorry I am that I kept you chained to my assistant desk for so long, but despite that you have launched yourself to truly impressive heights.” She reaches for a tissue and that breaks me, and I have to do the same. I dab furiously and thank the gods that I was sensible enough to bring my makeup bag with me to work today. “I am pleased--so pleased, so so pleased, my darling--to continue to work with you, and  _ honored  _ to have been your mentor.” 

We are both openly crying by this point. We indulge ourselves for a moment. 

“Helene, I don’t know what to say,” I get out. “When you took a chance on me, I can’t even tell you what it meant--” She holds up a hand, cutting me off. 

“Lucy, my dear, I have to stop you, otherwise we will both be hopelessly puffy, and I simply cannot face Richard like that. There are two of us now--” this sends us both back to furiously dabbing “--but he simply will not let us hear the end of it, the sexist pig.” I give a wet chuckle. “I just wanted to be the first one to tell you about the promotion, and let you know how very well deserved it is.” 

I don’t trust myself to talk so I try to make my nod as heartfelt as possible. 

Helene holds my gaze for a moment more, her smile soft and kind, before making an elegant dive for the same little bar car that holds the espresso machine. She produces a box of shortbread. “Sugar. That’s what we need. But do lock the door, darling, I’m not sharing with that little toad today. For women executives only.” 

My eyes start to water all over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen.... as a certified Old, I feel like I should say that the two-weeks notice thing is real. they don't give you notice if you get fired! you don't owe your company! they're a giant corporation! unfortunately, capitalism is a disaster that has perpetuated the cultural myth that companies deserve the loyalty of individuals so if you need like a reference, people will possibly be real tools about not giving notice so my two takeaways to the youths are 1) don't feel bad but 2) look out for your own futures. 
> 
> old-person preaching officially over. sending all my love. comments and feedback welcome. may your day be full of tiny joys. xo


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your two favorite dorks are insecure and fond

Chapter Five

The weekend after my promotion is announced, Josh spoils me shamelessly, indulging all my ridiculous little whims and keeping me plied with snacks. I am the most pampered little duchess on the planet. He does fall asleep after three hours of bad reality tv, but overall is very sporting. I turn off the tv, and reach up from where my head is in his lap to trace his prima donna eyelashes. He half-opens one eye to peek down at me. 

“I’m not sleeping,” he says. 

“You would never,” I agree. I trace his cheekbones, scratch gently through the stubble he has let grow out over the back half of his vacation week. It gives him a faintly debauched look. I am already mourning its loss. I have tried to convince him that it doesn’t necessarily need to go just because he’s starting at Sanderson, a position that he clearly finds insane. He lolls his head as I continue to pet his little furry face. I love him all loose like this. 

“So,” I ask, stretching in his lap like the spoiled cat that I am. “Are you ready to take Sanderson by storm, Mr. Divisional Finance Head?” I pause. “That name sounded better in my head.”

He twists a curl around his finger. “I am, yeah. I haven’t terrorized anyone in over a week.”

“Going through withdrawal?”

“Afraid I’m getting soft. Losing my edge.” 

I ruffle his hair affectionately. “I’m sure you’ll have the whole place cowering in terror in no time.” He grabs my hand and bites the back of my knuckles, then kisses them. 

“You think?”

“Oh yeah. Although you might consider playing nicely with the other children. Just an idea.”

He gives me the same look he gave me when I suggested keeping the beard. 

“You could make some friends! Go to cocktails after work, barbecues on the weekends. I’m sure at least a few of those accountants have a place in the suburbs.” 

Now he looks positively scandalized. “I’m sorry, but who are you? You look a lot like my girlfriend, Shortcake, but you’re clearly someone who has never met me.” 

A frisson of insecurity passes his face as he realizes that he’s called me his girlfriend, but I am feeling a corresponding spasm of delight and do nothing to hide it, and his expression relaxes. 

I wriggle up until I am fully seated in his lap. “Well, you’re going to have to find a new way to interact with your coworkers, because terrorizing your officemate is out. They will have no choice but to fall in love with you, and I plan to keep you.” 

It is my turn to feel a spasm of panicked embarrassment that I have revealed too much, but I can read the pleasure in his face, too, and am satisfied. 

“Oh Shortcake,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “You’re the only one I want to terrorize, too.”

***

Josh is almost immediately swamped by the situation at Sanderson. He isn’t allowed to tell me any specifics but he does testily report that it’s a “fucking disaster zone.” He seems perfectly delighted with the frequency with which he gets to ream out his new coworkers for their ineptitude. 

Things are also frantic at B&G. In a truly astonishing move, Bexley chooses to hire a no-nonsense woman in her late sixties named Pamela Dunnes who moves from a stern neutrality to open disdain over the course of her first day. She calls Bexley “Rick” to his face. The first time he asks her to get him coffee, she just raises her eyebrows and stares at him until he mutters, “sorry,” and shuffles off.

Helene is delighted. I’m obsessed. Bexley is poleaxed and possibly in love. 

Pamela’s overall no-bullshit air of competence is a godsend, particularly since on top of my own regular work, I am training her, helping Helene recruit my replacement, and trying to get a grasp on all the responsibilities that will fall to me once I officially become COO in a few weeks. I am also theoretically supposed to be hiring my own assistant before I start, but I suspect that that will have to sit on hold until I actually start the new job. After five years as an assistant, I suspect that I will survive a week or two without one. The fact that I’m getting one at all feels staggering. 

I periodically retreat to the supply closet to take some deep breaths. 

Turns out that a lot of good changes very quickly is still a lot of change very quickly. 

I don’t technically start as COO for three weeks, but Helene has insisted that I take a week off before assuming my new position. Bexley even agrees after Pamela gives him a solid twenty seconds of stare. 

This is a mixed-bag blessing because having one more week would really ease up the breakneck pressure but the week off will arrive right before the long weekend, which I was already going to take to go home to Sky Diamond. The pay raise that comes with the promotion means that changing my ticket and extending my trip for the full week isn’t a financial burden. When I tell my parents over Skype, my mom is so happy that she immediately bursts into tears. 

“Oh Lucy, oh Lucy.” She flaps her hands at the screen, then at herself, then back at the screen. “We haven’t had a full week with you in, oh! I don’t even know how long.” She tugs on my dad’s arm excitedly. “Do you hear that, Nigel? Our girl is coming for so long!”

My dad takes her hands in his before she can dislocate his shoulder. He is beaming, and so am I. “That’s great news, Smurfette. That boss of yours--”

“Not her boss anymore, Nigel! They’re all executives now!”

“--has finally recognized what a treasure you are. Promoting you and then giving you a week off! Best two ideas she’s ever had.” 

They start to chatter excitedly to each other about all the things we’ll do while I’m there. My mom begins planning a menu that will guarantee I eat at least seventeen means a day. I listen to them happily, giddy at the thought of getting to see them soon. It has been too long and it tugs at me like a phantom limb. 

“You’ll bring Josh, right, Smurfette? We mean it this time.” 

They have mentioned this periodically since I told them about my relationship with Josh.

“Oh, um,” I say brilliantly. 

My parents have been really lovely about my shift in things with Josh, but I know my dad, at least, isn’t completely sold, though I could tell that his whole evil scheme with Sanderson and the wedding impressed him when I told them the whole story. I shouldn’t be surprised how badly they want to meet Josh, but I am. 

“I can ask him,” I say, “but he did also just start a new job, remember.”

I’m actually at Josh’s apartment right now, but Josh is at the gym. He was already wound up stuck late after work today (when I asked what had happened, he blamed “generalized idiocy”) and when I told him that I planned to talk to my parents, he bolted like a startled lamb. I suspect that he is terrified of my parents not liking him. I remind him that I got into a very public fight with his father, but the memory of this cheers him up so much that we tend to lose track of the conversation. 

My dad does his best to contain a frown. “I don’t want to push, Smurfette, but we don’t get to see you very often, and if things are going to get serious with this young man, especially given your history--”

Oh, it’s going to be this kind of conversation. The kind where I wish for the couch to swallow me whole, or a city-wide power outage to take out the internet. 

Luckily, my mom takes mercy on me. If the way my dad jerks is any indication, she has kicked him under the table. “Of course, my sweets. If he can come, we’ll be thrilled! But if he can’t, we completely understand, especially because we’re already more than thrilled that you’ll be here with us. Isn’t that right, Nigel?” 

“Of course that’s right.” His smile is a little contrite, and I know he means it. “You being here is the event of the year for us. Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“I know, Dad.” 

“But we do really want to meet him, so you’ll ask him tonight,” he blurts, jumping out of my mom’s reach. “Gotta go check on a field I think my be flooding, love you, bring Josh, bye!” He disappears out of view and a few seconds later I hear the slam of the kitchen door. 

I am still laughing my ass off ten minutes later when Josh comes through the door. I am in a buoyant enough mood that I launch myself at him. He catches me easily, the coordinated bastard. He cheekily palms my butt. 

“You’re in a good mood,” he comments, dropping his gym bag into the waiting bin and toeing off his sneakers. “What’s up?”

“Do I need a reason to be in a good mood?” I cling to him like a little leech. 

“No. But do you have a reason to be in a good mood?” 

“My dad was being funny.” He moves us into the kitchen, and perches me on the counter. He kisses the side of my head absently and begins digging through the fridge. Tonight’s meal plan is mysteriously labelled “the stew,” and he pulls out ginger, a jar of garlic, and a massive bunch of some kind of greens. 

“Oh yeah? How are they?” 

“Well…” I tuck my feet up underneath me, which can’t be sanitary and is probably giving Josh a good flash up my skirt, but I’m wearing a clean pair of fuzzy socks and, well, he’s seen it. “They want to meet you, actually. They were hoping that when I go visit, that you might come too.”

I can’t see his face as he places his armful of ingredients on the kitchen table, so I begin to babble. We haven’t been dating that long, and he’s going to think I’m an overeager freak. “You don’t have to come for the whole week, obviously. I mean, you can’t really come for the whole week, can you, when you just started at Sanderson? But you could come for part of the time. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, but I want you to see it, and they want to see you, and it could be really nice, and--”

“Shortcake.” When he turns around, he is smiling, pleased and shy. “Are you inviting me to Sky Diamond Strawberry?”

I take a deep breath in and hold it for a count of two, until I can trust myself not to blurt out a dozen more qualifiers. “Yes.”

His smile grows. “Sky Diamond Strawberry, the number one place in the world I want to visit?”

My nerves start to settle. He always says the right things. “I thought that was the Tuscan villa?”

Oh God, he’s enjoying himself. “It’s been demoted to second. Sky Diamond has taken top spot, but invitations are extremely hard to come by. It’s very selective. You have to have the right connections.” 

He steps in close to me. “Joshua Templeman,” I ask with as much dignity as I can muster from where I am twisted into a stocking-footed pretzel on his kitchen counter. “Would you do me the very great honor of visiting Sky Diamond Strawberry, my namesake, with me in a few weeks?”

He comes closer, bending toward me, before veering, at the last second, to snatch a few cans out of the cabinet next to me. “Nah.”

“Josh!” I give a playful kick in his direction and nearly come crashing off the counter. He saves me right before I totally bite it. 

He is shaking with laughter as he hugs me. “I would love to come visit Sky Diamond, your namesake, with you, Lucinda.”

“You’re such a jerk!” He presses me into his shoulder. “And you’re so sweaty!”

“I’m hilarious. And you love it.” 

I growl and bite him and he laughs and laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! you rock, i adore you, sending digital hugs


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> date night!

Chapter Six

It feels incredible to say, but we fall into a sort of rhythm. Joshua Templeman and I are making it work. 

Helene, who despite her somewhat more lax, highly French attitude towards working hours is staggeringly efficient when she wants to be, schedules about thirty interviews within a week, gives second interviews to four, and hires my replacement with four days left with me on her desk. She also forwards me the resumes of the other three contenders, because “waste not, want not, my darling!” She had had me sit in on the interviews, and I felt positive about two of the candidates, both young women. I email them both, explaining the timeline of my situation, asking if they would be interested in interviewing to be _my_ assistant. We set up appointments for my return. I’m not certain that I will end up with one of them, but I am optimistic, and I leave for my vacation week feeling good about the work I have done at the end of my time on the tenth floor. 

I drag my personal effects (which fit in a small box, but is still at least three times what Josh took) down to the ninth floor, where my new office will be. Helene was apologetic that I would be down with the VPs instead of up with the other executives, but I’m not sorry to be leaving the mirrored monstrosity. Anything that reduces my contact with Richard Bexley is a blessing in my book.

Besides, my new office is _nice_. It isn’t the biggest office on the ninth floor, but it has floor-to-ceiling windows and the best bookshelves. I plan to recreate a slightly Bexley-ified version of my book cave back at Gamin. 

Before I get too deep on thinking through how much whimsy I can get away with, I plunk down my box and leave. It will keep until after my vacation. 

I swing by the ladies room to primp a little before leaving the building. I am meeting Josh for a date. 

We are meeting at the sports bar on Federal, because Josh finds himself hilarious. When he proposes the plan he is an excited little puppy dog of a boy, and I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing because I honestly also find him hilarious, but, well, his ego. 

Because, well, my ego, I take a moment of extra care with my makeup. I wait until I’m in my car (which has started making an ominous sound, but this also will keep until after my vacation) to swap the chunky red pullover that I wore to work this morning for a structured cream jacket that I adore but that is just a bit too sleek to go with the bulk of my wardrobe. For tonight, though, it is perfect. It makes a great frame for the too-daring-for-work neckline of my dress. Frankly, it’s a great dress, but I always end up hiding its best features under a boxy sweater like the one I wore today.

In what felt like a huge relationship milestone, I recently caved and bought another set of my absurdly overpriced haircare for Josh’s apartment. He laughed himself sick over how happy it made me. 

My curls are thus returned to their former glory and they seem to know tonight is date night. My vanity is satisfied. 

When I get to the bar, it’s packed, but I see Josh right away. He towers over the people around him, even perched on a stool, and he is glowering at everyone in the immediate area, which is very effectively keeping a stool free for me. He’s wearing his green shirt, but he’s taken his tie off and opened the top button, which is a new look. It’s a good look. 

He takes a swig of his beer and suddenly it’s a _very_ good look. 

I feel kind of warm. Is it warm in here? 

It takes a minute for me to make my way through the crowded bar. When Josh spots me, I’m still a few feet away. He wipes his thumb over his bottom lip in a move that ratchets the temperature up another few degrees. When he gets to his feet and looks towards me, the crowd parts a little more easily for me, and I am jealous of his giant’s power. Maybe I can get him to teach me that glare. 

“Shortcake,” he says, pulling me into him. “You look...wow. You look great.” 

“Thank you.” I prop up on my tiptoes to get closer to him. 

He gives me a soft, sweet kiss. It leaves me wanting more. 

“That’s my patented first date kiss,” he informs me as I try to look cool while climbing onto the tall stool. 

I halfway manage it. Good enough. “This isn’t a first date,” I point out. 

“Technically, it is,” he counters. “If you count dates as going out, then it is.”

“Still no. We went out to your brother’s wedding.”

He lifts a single finger, as if to educate me on the finer points. “That was you making good on a deal. So still technically not a first date.”

God, he is so argumentative. “You got laid.” I make a halfhearted attempt to flag down the bartender, who nods that she’ll be over soon. 

“I never said it wasn’t a great deal for me.” He takes a swig of his beer. A tall, glamorous redhead watches the bob of his throat appraisingly. I smile at her with all my teeth. Josh doesn’t notice. He’s very wrapped up in our games, but then again, he always was a very attentive player. 

“You’re a monster,” I tell him. 

“Your monster.” Saucy. So, so saucy. 

We end up each having two drinks at the bar, talking and flirting and sniping at one another while he traces distracting abstract patterns on my knee. At one point, the sweet-faced bartender stands out of Josh’s line of sight, points and him and gives me an emphatic thumbs-up, mouthing _you go girl_ at me. He is beautiful, yes, but I feel a possessive pride that I get to see his secret inner bits, too. 

By the time I’m done with my second drink, I’m fuzzy enough that his fingers on my leg go from distracting to _very_ distracting, so we settle up and walk a few blocks until we find a restaurant that catches our interest. I happily slurp down a massive bowl of noodles while Josh deftly navigates an entire fish until only a neat pile of little bones remains. 

We both agree we aren’t ready for our date to be over, so we walk some more, our fingers interlaced. I am reminded of his insistence that he’s never nice. What a little liar. 

We walk past a bakery that smells so heavenly that I know I will be plagued by regret for the rest of my life if we don’t go in and eat something. I pester Josh into sharing a massive slice of lemon meringue pie, so tart it stings my mouth. When we’re halfway through he leans over and kisses me deeply. His tongue tastes of summer. 

He lets me have far more than my fair share of the pie. Is it possible to overdose on love? Surely we’re close. 

The grouchy teen working the bakery late shift starts to send us slightly hostile looks, so we go. By the time we walk back to our cars, it really is getting late. Josh leans me up against the door of my car before I can get in and kisses me thoroughly, as if he isn’t about to follow me back to my apartment. It isn’t a second date kiss. It’s a going off to war kiss. “Your car really is an absolute piece of shit, Luce,” he murmurs against my mouth. 

I stick my tongue out at him petulantly. 

My flight is truly obscenely early the next morning, and I’m already beginning to yawn, so we start to head to bed as soon as we get back to my apartment. Josh only tidies two things, a new record low. He has already said he’ll pop by once or twice to water my plants while I’m gone, so it’s possible he resists only knowing he can go nuts, totally unsupervised, while I’m out of town. I perversely left a lipstick-printed mug on his nightstand a few days ago, so I can understand the impulse. 

We brush our teeth together in my tiny bathroom. Josh had to take a new toothbrush from his own basket of extras, because of course I didn’t have a spare, to keep at my place. As I stand in my ratty old tank top, him in a well-worn t-shirt that he has stashed here for this very purpose, I meet his eyes in the mirror and am struck by the intimacy of it all. Somehow the clear understanding that there is no plan for sex tonight makes it feel more emotionally raw. 

A vicious stab of fear lances through me. I am completely addicted to loving him. 

Joshua Templeman. Who knew?

But as he curls up behind me in bed, one arm banded across my lower stomach, and presses a triptych of kisses to the back of my neck, the fear fades like it was never there. 

***

Only for my parents would I drag myself out of bed at such an ungodly hour. On a _Saturday_. 

I look and feel like garbage. Josh looks four percent less hot than usual. 

He’s clearly also grumpy and feeling the strain of the early morning. But he still looks hot doing it.

We drag ourselves around my kitchen in a sadder approximation of our usual morning pattern. I haven’t left enough time and have to drop an ice cube in my tea to make it a gulp-able temperature. I make a mental note to pass this hot tip onto Patrick Templeman. 

Josh keeps dropping kisses onto my hair. “I’m gonna miss you, Shortcake,” he mumbles the third time. I lean my head back against his stomach. He kisses my eyebrow. I scrunch my nose at him.

There’s an unexpected level of traffic on the way to the airport. Josh swears and weaves between lanes expertly, but by the time we get there I’m late. I kiss him once, twice, fast, and then literally have to run. 

Without makeup, I definitely look like a child running to catch the school bus. I am even wearing a _backpack_. God. 

The flight is relatively short and uneventful. I try to read--one of the ironies of working at a publisher is that I’m constantly behind on things I want to read. If it isn’t a B&G title, it may as well not exist--but end up dozing fitfully. 

Compared to the frantic metropolitan airport I just left, the airport closest to my parents’ farm is basically just a hallway with doors. 

At the end of that hallway stands my parents, holding a giant sign. WELCOME HOME, SMURFETTE!! The letters are done up in glitter and someone (I suspect my dad, who has always been the better artist) has drawn a little family of smurfs along the bottom. 

Those utter dorks. At least I come by my complete lack of cool honestly. 

Screw dignity. I jog the last few steps towards them and throw myself into their arms. I’m immediately wrapped in a parental sandwich. “Oh baby, you’re here! You’re here!” My dad and I are definitely both crying. My mom seems to be barely holding it together, but her happy murmurs are sounding a little wet. 

We are cryers, we Huttons. 

Their love is this bottomless well, and sometimes it seems ridiculous how deep it goes, how wildly disconnected it is from any of my actions or choices or accomplishments, but right now I let myself sink into it. 

My dad grabs my suitcase, my mom grabs the sign, and they link arms around my waist, awkward around the bulge of my backpack. We shuffle along, a three-headed monster. 

I am so happy to be back that I could honestly puke. 

My mom thinks my hair looks great, because she knows exactly how to charm me. My dad worries that I’m looking a little pale. Am I working too much? I admire my mom’s new haircut. “Oh, Luce, you already said that on Skype--you’re too sweet.” But did I see how fit my dad was looking? Some of the local farmer husbands have started a yoga club--one of their daughters got her dad into it, and it was _so_ helpful for his back after day working in fields. My mom uses that time to catch up on the soap opera she and her sister have been hate-watching for the last decade. “I’m finally free,” my dad whispers. My mom swats playfully at his butt. 

They’re gross. I adore them. 

The roads have gotten worse since the last time I’ve been back, which reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve been back. I bounce between them on the old-style bench seat of the farm truck. There’s a crocheted strawberry that I sent them hanging from the rearview. 

When we get to Sky Diamond, there’s a bowl of strawberries on the kitchen table. “They’re out of season, but I couldn’t resist,” my mom says. “Want a smoothie?”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so the trip to Sky Diamond was basically the reason why I *had* to write this fic...which is why it spans three chapters. I could not help myself

Chapter Seven

The only downside to an otherwise perfect week at Sky Diamond is that I miss Josh. I send him pictures of the winterized strawberry plants and clear blue skies. He sends back an office selfie in the robins-egg blue shirt. He’s stingy with the photos, but they hit me so hard every time. My dad catches a picture of my face looking while I’m looking at it, and my parents use it to torment me all week. 

I look smitten. How mortifying. 

Otherwise, I am living a charmed existence. I gorge myself on strawberries. My mom and I go hunting for her perfect lipstick shade. With all her freckles, her color is a little more pink than mine. She looks incredible. 

For the rest of the week, I catch pink smudges on my dad. It’s a little more than I need to know, but it’s sweet. 

Javier and Lina, who have been working at the farm for about twenty years, come over for dinner. They’re a married couple, and my parents’ best friends. They complain good-naturedly about the trials of empty nesting, and I gamely operate as a stand-in for all children who have had the audacity to move far away. I fawn over pictures of their grandchildren, and adorable pair of gap-toothed twin boys and a toddler girl who, according to Javier, has a particular genius for getting into mischief, and is taking years off her moms’ lives. 

This is the perfect segue for them to tease me about Josh. By the time I take myself to bed, they are basically in hysterics over their own comedy routine about young love and kids these days and getting grandchildren while they’re still young enough to enjoy them, with a few choice anecdotes about my awkward adolescence thrown in for variety. 

I watch bad television with my mom, cook with my dad. I wreck them at Scrabble. 

The whole thing is so idyllic I can hardly stand it. It’s the perfect vacation.

Josh is able to get one day off work. With the holiday on Monday, this makes his long weekend extra long. For most of the week we sent back and forth a few texts in between my busy schedule of relaxing and his busy schedule of terrorizing the Sanderson financial department in advance his day off, but on Thursday night we talk briefly on the phone. 

“So, Shortcake, is there anything, like, weird that I should bring? Like is your dad really into fly fishing and I should pack wellingtons?”

“Do you  _ own  _ wellingtons?”

He clears his throat. “Well, no. I guess I mean more generally, is there anything I need to know to avoid putting my foot in it? Any weird skeletons I could accidentally stumble on?”

Oh my  _ God _ . I am going to die. “Tell me you realize the irony of this.”

“Listen, I told my mom good things about you before you met her. I am perfectly aware that your parents have a complete record of my sins.”

“And yet.” I am lounging on my childhood bed, my legs propped up above me, against the headboard. I spent dozens of hours reading like this when I was a kid. There are still glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, and more than a few oily bluish smudges where there used to be stars until the thumb tac lost its sticking power. “I’m going to need you to admit that you realize it.”

He makes a frustrated little growly sound. 

“It’s just that, you might recall--” I tilt my head back, and look upside-down at the series of girl knight books I loved as a child and haven’t reread in too long “--that I asked you this precise thing before your brother’s wedding.” 

I pause. “Are you done?” he asks. 

Holding in my laugh is a version of our old games. “I would be, but I just need to know that you remember that when I asked you this precise thing before your brother’s wedding, you told me there there was nothing I needed to know.”

“Shortca--”

“But there  _ was _ something I needed to know, Josh. Isn’t that right?” 

I pause again, and he huffs out a breath. I’ve won. “That is technically right, Lucinda.”

“Technically?”

“Well, as I have  _ already explained and apologized for  _ I personally did not care about the whole Mindy of it all, because as you may have heard, I am very in love with you.” He’s trying to butter me up, but it won’t work. “But I admit that, given the fact that everyone else clearly cared, that I probably should have mentioned it.”

He’s being so conciliatory that I can’t help but continue to torture him. If I were nicer, I’d take him giving in as a sign that he’s really desperate to impress my parents. Lucky for me, he likes it when I’m not nice. 

“Given that history, Mr. Templeman, why would you trust anything I have to say?” 

I didn’t necessarily intend for this to take a sexy turn, but something about the way Josh coughs a little makes me think it has. I don’t hate it. I file it away for future use that “Mr. Templeman” seems to work. That will come in handy.

“I always assume you’re lying, Lucinda.” His voice is rough. I have to swing my legs down. There’s too much blood in my head. “You’re a cruel little thing. You live to torture me. But you know something? I always give as good as I get. I think you know that by now.” 

“Oh,” I say. He is disturbingly good at riling me up. I am disturbingly easy to rile up. 

“There’s going to be payback for tormenting me, Lucinda. Once you get back home, I mean. Don’t think that my waiting means I’ve forgotten. It just means I’ll have a lot of time to be really, really creative.”

“Josh--”

“Goodnight, Lucinda. I love you. See you tomorrow.” And he hangs up. 

Maybe it’s the residual effect of my childhood room pumping teenage hormones into my veins, but I clutch my phone to my chest and grin dopily. No offense to Scrabble, but these games are my favorite. 

***

It’s colder at my parents’ farm than it is in the city. If winter is creeping in on us at home, it’s in full throttle here. When I wake up on Friday morning, there’s frost crackling across the windshield of the truck. Even inside the truck it’s cold enough that I swallow my vanity and put on a lumpy knit cap. It’s cute enough, in a whimsical way, I tell myself. 

Of course, in classic Bexley/Gamin contrast, Josh looks like he’s just stepped out of an ad for vacationing businessmen. He has a weekend bag slung over his shoulder as he waits on the curb in the airport pickup lane, and has paired his neat wool coat with a burgundy scarf, dark jeans, and  _ boots _ . 

That beautiful fool softens when he sees me pull up. 

“Shortcake.” He uses both hands to pull me in for a kiss. I feel him up a little through his jacket. “I missed you.” He grins. “And you never told me that there was a Sky Diamond-branded truck.”

I laugh, merging back into traffic. “Oh yes, the strawberries only travel in style. You have no idea the connections I had to use to get use of this truck.” 

“I knew it.” He props his arm along the back of the truck seat and fluffs my hair. “I am ready for this elite experience. Take me to the strawberries, Luce.”

It’s a bit of a drive back out to the farm, and Josh dozes for a few minutes, but gets jolted awake when we go over a particularly bad rut. “Sorry,” I say as he rubs a hand over his face. 

“No, it’s good. I’d rather not be drooling when I meet your parents. Speaking of, let’s revisit our conversation from last night. Not that part,” he adds when I cock an eyebrow. “I feel like your parents won’t like me if we crash the strawberry truck.”

“Good instinct. You’re off to a great start. As long as you don’t mention cows, you’ll be great.”

“Cows?”

“Yeah, one killed my Aunt Bertha. Maybe also steer clear of root vegetables and parasailing. Religion and politics are fine.”

I can almost hear the eye roll. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Sure am.” I dart a glance in his direction. He clearly can’t decide if he’s charmed or annoyed. “Seriously, Joshua, you’ll be fine. They want to like you. You want to be liked, which is basically a charm offensive for you. Also, they are extremely chill people.”

He fidgets a little and I’m reminded of our drive to Patrick’s wedding. “I’m not you, Shortcake. I don’t make a great first impression. Or a second one.” His knee is bouncing restlessly. “I just really want them to like me.” 

He sounds so embarrassed to admit this that my heart breaks a little. I reach out to place a hand on his leg, hoping I don’t actually crash the strawberry truck because, joking aside, my parents probably won’t like that. “They’re gonna like you. Yeah, yeah, my dad will probably give you a hard time a little, but if he actually didn’t like you, he’d ice you out. My mom is going to fuss over you. She’ll be flattered that you like the blog--they both will. They’re not expecting some slick politician. They want to get to know  _ you. _ ” 

I consider telling him that my mom actually won’t shut up about it, but that feels like too much pressure. 

Josh is looking every so slightly reassured, which is good, because we’re there. He’s distracted by the Sky Diamond Strawberries sign. 

Lina is working in the open barn. She waves cheerfully. “There’s a barn!” Josh sounds like it’s his Christmas. 

“It’s prettier in the summer, when things are blooming.”

“It’s gorgeous.” 

If he had ever used that tone back when we were enemies, I would have lost the Staring Game immediately. 

My parents are standing on the front porch, completing the provincial countryside scene. Anyone else would be making fun of me, but not my Josh. 

As I hop out of the truck, my mom rushes towards us, bypasses me and heads straight for Josh. He looks faintly alarmed. “Oh Joshua, I’m so glad to finally meet you!” She throws her arms around him, awkwardly pinning his to his side. He tries to give a hug back, with limited success. She barely comes up to his shoulder. Is this what I look like standing next to him? It’s worse than I realized. 

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hutton,” he says. 

“Oh goodness, call me Annie. We’ve heard so much about you, I feel like I already know you!” Josh’s glance to me is wide-eyed. I don’t know if his palpable distress is better or worse than his usual buttoned-up severity. 

“Mom.” I am mercy personified. “Maybe let’s move this inside. It’s pretty cold out here.”

“Yes, yes of course.” She does her hand-flapping thing. I make a mental note to worry later about whether or not I do that. “Let’s get inside. Are you tired, Joshua? Do you want coffee? Tea? Lucy is a tea drinker.” 

This isn’t going great. My mom is in rare form. 

Surely my dad will be more normal. He puts out his hand, which Josh shakes gratefully. “Good to meet you, Jeremy.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. “ _ Dad _ .” 

To my immense surprise, this actually seems to loosen Josh up a little. “You too, Mr. Hutton.”

“Call me Nigel, Joshua.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just want to give an extra thanks to the folks who have been leaving comments! you all rule so much. like think about how much you *think* you rule, and then multiply that by a thousand, and then you're starting to come close to how much you *actually* rule


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 3/3 of the Sky Diamond trip, complete with a heart-to-heart with Annie

Chapter Eight

After our bumpy start, the long weekend at Sky Diamond ends up being pretty nice. I do catch Josh taking cell phone pictures of some of the more embarrassing adolescent photos that my parents have hanging up around the house  _ four  _ separate times, which I assume will come back to haunt me. I try to snag Josh’s phone to delete any incriminating evidence, but both times he just holds it above his head, and I have  _ just  _ enough dignity not to jump for it. 

My mom makes me sound like a total loser a few times--”You know, Josh, you’re the first boy our Lucy has brought home!” and “We always knew she was going to be a big publishing success. When she was a kid, we barely knew what she looked like, she had her nose in a book so often!”--but she’s clearly thrilled. Besides, Josh already knows that I am not exceptionally well socialized. 

It’s actually their  _ extremely  _ in-depth discussion of the genetic profile of Lucy-44 that breaks me. 

While they chat about root rot and rapid yield, I retreat to the living room to curl up with a blanket and some old  _ Sweet Valley High  _ books. 

“Good man,” my dad says later. “Reads the blog! Has some decent thoughts about farming for a city boy.” 

Josh goes running through the strawberry fields in the mornings, and joins me for breakfast smoothies. We make out in the barn until Javier catches us and makes “rolling in the hay” jokes until I am blushing up to my hairline. My dad invites Josh to his all-men yoga class. Josh clearly scrambles for a polite response and fails. “No, Nigel, I will not attend that class.” My dad’s second offer, to drink beers on the roof with him and Javier, is accepted.

While they go off to do their male-bonding stuff, my mom and I cuddle on the couch. I tuck my head into her shoulder and she cards her fingers through my hair. I try to soak up as much of her warmth and softness as I can. There is nothing on earth like mom cuddles. 

She smells faintly of the Neutrogena body wash she’s used my entire life plus the earthy tang of thyme, which she used to season the chicken we had for dinner. We watch an episode of  _ The Bachelor _ , and she editorializes through the entire thing so loudly that I have to turn on the subtitles. When the episode ends, I click off the tv, but neither of us move. I feel a preemptive sadness, knowing how much I’ll miss her and my dad both when I go back home, but I shove it back down to enjoy the moment. 

“You know, my baby,” she says, her cheek pressed against my forehead, “these past few months, when you went through the merger and everything, and when your friend Val was so unreasonable about things, I was a little worried, I have to tell you.” I make to move a little, but she presses her cheek a little more firmly, and gives my hair a few extra strokes, so I let myself get limp again. “You were working so much, and you were so lonely. You would  _ tell  _ us, your dad and me, that you were lonely, and I knew that you were hiding the worst of it. You’re like me, like that.” She gives a soft little chuckle. “It’s not always a bad thing. It has its uses. But this time I think you were hiding it from yourself, too, maybe.”

She says this all in a kind, nonjudgmental tone. I close my eyes. I don’t feel like I need to shrink away from this assessment. 

“And you had this coworker you hated, I have to tell you, he sounded like a perfect little  _ fucker _ .” My eyes jolt open and we both laugh. My mom is not big on cursing. She puts her hand on my cheek. “And then you asked me about my career, in the midst of this whole COO thing. And that worried me, too, for a minute there. I don’t have any regrets--I told you that. You, and your dad, and even this farm, you are the absolute loves of my life. My life is so good, but I still sometimes wonder what if.”

I curl my feet up into her lap. My mom has sparkle eyes.

“Then I realized that giving up your professional dream was never your issue. I’m not just saying that old ‘times have changed’ line. We both know women still deal with this crap in a million ways. But because of you, my sweet girl. You have always been so driven to do this publishing thing, to be incredible at it, that I realized that maybe I should worry that you would give up too much of the other stuff. Not that I’m saying you  _ need _ romantic love to be happy,” she adds hastily. 

“Don’t worry, mom,” I tease. “I’m not going to take your feminist card.”

She gives my calf a swat. “Oh shut it. My point is, I’m so happy for you, the way things are turning out. Not just the promotion, though God knows you deserve it. And not just Josh, even though it’s a big deal--a really big deal--that he was willing to give up that job for you. Not a lot of men would do that. The way he went about it was a little misguided, maybe, with all the secrecy and the plotting, but you’re a stubborn little thing, so I can’t say I don’t see where he was coming from.” 

I narrow my eyes at her. She mimics my expression. 

“I  _ like  _ him, Lucy. For one, he looks at you like he would eat broken glass if you asked him to, which, as your parents, your father and I obviously approve of. But it’s you, too. Your dad likes to say that you could charm the devil into going to church, and you absolutely could, but you’re not putting on your charm face with him. You’re just acting like you. Like you do with me and your dad. And as your mom, that’s really special to see. So, for what it’s worth, I approve.”

“I was a real asshole to him too,” I say so that I don’t start crying. “It wasn’t just him. I was a total monster.”

She chuckles. “I don’t doubt it.”

“I spied on his day planner. Literally photocopied pages and shredded the evidence.” 

She has a hand pressed up against her mouth. “You read too many spy novels as a child.”

“All my computer passwords were about how much I hated him.”

She’s openly cracking up now. “You’ve always been creative. And had a bitter competitive streak.”

We’re laughing more at each other’s laughter than anything else at this point. “He cracked every one.”

“You two idiots deserve each other.”

Every time one of us almost gets under control, the other one gets set off again. My stomach hurts from it by the time my dad, Josh, and Javier come clomping down the stairs, wrapped in cold weather gear and carrying an empty six pack. 

“What are you laughing at down here, Annie-girl?” my dad ruffles her hair affectionately.

“Your daughter is a complete psycho.”

“Oh,” he replies mildly. “I thought you already knew.”

***

We can’t fit four people in the truck, so my mom volunteers to stay back at the farm while my dad drives us to the airport after breakfast the next day. “She’s gonna cry so hard she won’t be able to drive,” he confides to Josh. They have apparently really bonded during their rooftop dude time. “I’m a man, so I can keep my crying inside until I make it back home.” 

My mom keeps trying to press things on Josh. He accepts a book (“To read! In case you get bored on the plane!”) even though I know for a fact that he has an iPad jam-packed with ebooks and a banana (“Nigel, didn’t you say that you read that potassium is important when you fly?” “Deep breaths, Annie.”), but draws the line at one of my dad’s sweaters, which is good, because he’s at least six inches taller than my dad.

We exchange so many hugs that we’re in danger of being late for the flight. 

Josh, to his credit, is a pretty good sport about being seen with an openly weeping girl. He glares at anyone who looks at me too long, until I point out that this really makes it seem as though he is the one making me cry. His expression is almost comically stricken. “Oh, fuck me, Shortcake, you’re right.” He drops his head into his hands and I can’t help but laugh. 

As they call our flight, he pulls the crumpled-up tissue out of my hand and uses it to mop up the last of my tears. “Come on, Shortcake,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you thank you all again for reading and commenting and being overall lovely. it means so much to me! you have no idea.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised no conflict, sorry that that was a tiny lie, but I promise it’s short-lived, I just couldn’t help it because they’re both stubborn jerks and making up is cute!!

Chapter Nine

A month into the new position and I want to propose marriage to Amanda, my new assistant. Right now, I can hear her denying the head of finance access to my office with a razor-sharp politeness. This is very important, because the head of finance is an asshole. 

(“Is that, like, a  _ thing  _ with finance department heads?” I ask Josh one night as we’re making fried rice for dinner. “Ha ha,” he says, throwing a pea at me.) 

“I can  _ absolutely _ get you on Lucy’s calendar,” Amanda is assuring him. “I  _ know  _ it isn’t quite as convenient, but it’s  _ so  _ important to have written records, so if you could just email me your request that would be  _ wonderful _ .” She has this strategy where she stands up when she tells people no. It’s genius. I plan to steal it. 

She’s also nearly six feet tall and wears heels almost every day, so obviously I am also feverishly jealous of her. 

“Ms. Kwan--”

“Oh, please, Dan, call me Amanda.” She also refuses to call anyone by anything other than their first name. She is twenty three years old. By the time she’s twenty five, she’ll probably be  _ my _ boss. “And trust me, I hear your frustration. Lucy is on a call right now--” I am not on a call right now “--so as soon as you shoot me that availability, I’ll make sure to get you on her calendar for a time that works for both of you,  _ top priority _ .”

Amanda  _ hates  _ Dan. She thinks he’s a fascist. “I’m so sorry, Lucy, I know it isn’t professional to say,” she blurted out when I took her out for drinks at the end of her second week, to ask how she was settling in. “But he  _ is _ . And he absolutely does not need to meet with you so often. It’s a complete vanity project because Helene keeps telling him no.” 

Amanda is indispensable to me because, only a few days after I start as COO, I realize why Helene was so apologetic about not giving me a tenth-floor office. Because I’m right down the hall, half the department heads want to pop in constantly. Dan is merely the worst offender. It seems impossible that a one-floor elevator ride would be such a deterrent, but apparently it is. 

Or maybe it was just that everyone was scared shitless of Josh. 

In any case, I have made a personal vow to keep Amanda as my assistant for no longer than a year and a half. Her efficiency is a reason to promote her, not a reason to keep her.

So far, the actual work I’m doing as COO isn’t too different from what I was doing as Helene’s assistant. (I have been wildly underpaid for  _ years _ .) I am still compiling reports from various departments, and generally acting as a liaison between the major players at B&G and Helene and Bexley. The differences are the quantity--I’ve been stuck here late every day this week--and that all the former Bexleys that basically ignored me when I was just Helene’s assistant are now falling all over themselves to show that they don’t care about my youth, or femininity, or general Gamin-ness. It’s exhausting. 

Once Dan departs with some malcontented grumbling, I count mentally to twenty before poking my head out my office door. Amanda has pointed out a few times that I can text from my computer to hers if I’m trying to avoid the vultures, but I was trained by Helene’s old-school ways for long enough that I need to be dragged, kicking and screaming into the twenty first century. 

“You can head out, Amanda,” I tell her. “I’m just wrapping up a few things, and I don’t need you to hang around just because I’m here.”

She arches an eyebrow, and crosses her legs. She is wearing these wide-legged sailor pants and t-strap heels with an oversized blazer that should make her look like she’s drowning in clothes, but is almost too cool to look at. “I feel like I should argue,” she says, “because who else will guard the gates? But if I go too much longer without having dinner with my parents, they’re going to break into my apartment and force-feed me. Lock your office door.” I make a shooing motion, and she goes. 

I retreat to my office and sigh. 

***

By the end of the week, I am  _ exhausted _ . It’s making me cranky, and I am falling back into my old habits of directing my fury at Joshua Templeman. 

“Why don’t we ever go to my apartment?” I whine while dinner is in the oven. “When did we ever make the decision, oh Josh’s apartment is better than Lucy’s, let’s make that the default?”

This comes entirely out of left field, but he’s tired, too. I can practically see him fighting not to say that his apartment  _ is  _ better. But I am a dick who can’t let things go. “Who cares that Lucy has all her things at her apartment? It’s just her stupid toys and mess, so who cares if she likes them?”

His groan is quiet but heartfelt. “Shortcake, let’s not do this.” His tone holds a warning. 

“Sure, sure, let’s not do this.” These words are flying out of my mouth without my consent. I am hopped up on my own bad mood. “Why talk about something that’s already going exactly the way you want it to?”

Josh closes his eyes, and his lines stiffen. It might as well be three months ago. “Can we talk about it after dinner, then? Maybe you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”

“After I’ve  _ eaten _ ? Oh, forgive me, brilliant business man. Surely it’s just that I’m hungry, not that I could possibly actually be mad about something.” If I’m being honest, being hungry probably isn’t helping, but that seems completely irrelevant at this moment. “Or maybe it’s--” I drop my voice to an acidic half-whisper “-- _ that time of the month _ . Or maybe I just need a nap! Since apparently I’m a child.”

He has a full-on case of Serial Killer Eyes, the ones he gets when he’s actually mad, not the ones he gets when he’s turned on and trying to pretend he’s mad. “Well you’re certainly acting like one, Lucinda.” He rises to his feet. I do the same. I won’t let him use his size against me. 

“Right, everyone who challenges the great Joshua Templeman is just acting out, of course.” I am so angry that I’ve made a time machine. We’re back in the mirrored monstrosity. I might as well be threatening to call HR for how boring and old this is. “Guess you secretly prefer sweet, docile little Lucy after all.”

I am spitting venom, but this last one feels a half-note too true. I think it registers--Josh’s expression seems to stutter for a second--but we’re both too stubborn and too far gone. 

“Well, Jesus Christ, Shortcake, if that’s what you think, what the hell are you even doing here?”

I  _ hate  _ him for using that nickname while we’re fighting. I hate myself for picking this stupid fight. I have to get out of there before I start to cry. 

“Luce--” Josh says when I throw on my shoes. He half reaches towards me, then seems to force his hand back to his side in a clenched fist. 

I slam the door behind me.

***

By the time I get back to my building, most of my anger has fizzled out and also I’m really  _ really  _ cold. I didn’t bother to grab my jacket before dramatically storming out of Josh’s. 

I drop my head against the steering wheel. I am sick.  _ Sick _ . 

**Lucy Hutton:** I’m sorry

I am a prideful little beast and it takes me three tries to send it. 

Josh responds immediately. 

**Joshua Templeman:** I know, Luce, me too. Sorry I went straight into asshole mode. 

**Lucy Hutton:** Sorry I picked a fight. I love you.

**Joshua Templeman:** I love you too, Shortcake. 

A few days later, I spot a collection of my Smurfs perched on his bookshelf. They look like they’re having a little campfire around the model of the bones of the hand, which is now making the okay sign--also my doing. Josh catches me noticing. 

“I want you to feel like you can have your stuff, Shortcake… It’s just your bed is  _ so small _ . My feet hang off the end. It’s so horrible, I feel like a kid who is afraid of a monster reaching out from under the bed, and you--you are not a compact sleeper.” 

We are playing the Laughing Game. “So you decided to rob me?” I touch the brimmed cap of a rare Handy Smurf that I found at a rummage sale. It was one of my all-time scores. 

“I like to think of it as a liberation.” He has come up behind me. He moves my hair off to one side, nuzzles under my ear. “They missed you.” He puts on a squeaky little voice. “ _ Take us to Josh’s, Shortcake! _ ”

That does it. I lose it. “Oh my god, never do that again.” 

He bites me gently. “No, you don’t like that? Not sexy?”

By the time he drags me onto the couch, I am gasping. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy IWD! in honor, here's a mom chapter! also, sorry that the last two have been sort of short--ch. 11 is long (too long? maybe but I didn't have a good spot to break it up) if that makes up for it. you rule etc etc

Chapter Ten

It’s a Sunday in mid-November and I am trying to wrangle an armful of clothes that I plan to wear this week and a bag of groceries. I knock on Josh’s door with my elbow and the whole thing nearly comes crumbling down. 

I have nearly finished fumbling when Josh opens the door a few seconds later, his phone held to his ear. His hair is wet.  _ My mom _ , he mouths, taking the groceries from me, which immediately causes me to drop the clothes. 

“Yeah, mom, it’s Lucy,” he says as I follow him in. “Yeah, she’s great. My mom says hi,” he tells me. 

“Hi, Elaine!” 

“She says hi back, mom.”

I head into the bedroom and dump my clothes into the little basket at the bottom of Josh’s closet where I’ve been stashing things. I  _ could  _ refold them, but don’t. 

“Yeah, her new job is good, but busy.” He pulls a jar of funfetti icing out of the grocery bag, and holds it up as if to say  _ good god, Lucinda, why _ ? I shrug. I genuinely don’t remember deciding to buy it, but I’m not sorry that I did. “No, she  _ does  _ like it--no, mom, I don’t have to ask her, we talk about it, regularly.”

Whenever he talks to his mom--and even sometimes when he just talks about her--Josh gets softly exasperated in a way that’s very sweet. He pretends like he doesn’t like Elaine’s earnest eagerness to see him happy, and settled, and loved, but I think it secretly soothes something deep in him that has long been roughened by the relentless crap he catches from Anthony. 

“I already--” He sighs. “Lucinda, my mom wants you to confirm that you like your new job.” 

I turn from putting away a box of rosemary crackers . “I do, Elaine!” 

He listens for a moment. “It’s not too stressful?” Josh’s expression is long-suffering. He’s so happy. 

“A little stressful, but not too stressful,” I dutifully confirm. Josh is not wrong in his claim that he knows all this, partially because I am a relentless complainer. He repeats it back to her. 

“No, mom. Mom. Why on earth would I lie to you about that? No, mom.” There’s a pause. I am suddenly very interested in this. “Yeah, fine, fine, okay.” 

He looks tortured and holds the phone out to me. “She wants to talk to you.” He raises his voice to ensure that he’s audible on the other end of the line. “But feel free to say no because she is  _ very nosy _ .” 

I take the phone. “Hi Elaine!”

“Lucy!” She sounds so warm and pleased that I can’t help but smile. “How are you, honey? New job not keeping you too busy?” 

“Definitely busy, but not too busy. It’s good! A lot of work, but good.” 

Josh throws up his hands in exasperation and leaves the kitchen. 

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it. I remember how it is--any promotion is always a crazy rush of chaos at the beginning. It can eat up your life. When Patrick was little, I had a few years where I swear that I had to choose between bathtime for him and mealtime for me. There’s this picture my sister took where I’m literally eating a jar of baby food he didn’t finish while he naps on my lap. Phew!” She laughs. “Those times were mostly behind me by the time Josh came along, thank goodness. I can’t imagine what it would have been like with two.”

All of a sudden it clicks into place. She’s worried that Josh will get lonely. 

Man, that’s cute. 

“Fortunately, it’s not quite as hectic when you’re making books as when you’re saving lives,” I reassure her. “We’re both busy with our new jobs, but we find time for fun.” I feel a jolt of horror as I worry that it sounds like I’m referring to sex with her son. “I’m going to make cupcakes this afternoon!” Oh, right, family of health freaks. God, I am so slick. 

Luckily for me, Elaine Templeman is a very nice woman. “That sounds so nice. Josh mentioned that you used to bring in such lovely treats for your staff meetings at work.” I have to assume that she’s editorializing a little. I am 99.8% sure that Josh never once took one of my treats at a staff meeting. 

I am doing whatever I can to avoid saying that out loud when Elaine barrels on. “Anyway, Lucy, I was thinking about what you said at the wedding.”

Well. This could go any one of several ways, based on things that I said at the wedding.

“And I do think it would be really nice to come down for a day or so and see the two of you!”

I hope my breath of relief isn’t audible over the phone. “Oh, um, yeah! That would be nice!”

I have a vague suspicion that I am being played somehow and that that is the reason she wants to talk to me about this, and not Josh. I move out of the kitchen to find him for some backup, and find him doing push-ups in the bedroom which, frankly, is a whole thing. He stops and sits up when I enter. 

“Of course, I’d have to ask Josh when would be good for him  _ for you to come visit _ .” I widen my eyes meaningfully. 

I like Elaine, I really do, but I am definitely not dumb enough to get caught up in a scheme to trick Josh. That feels like it would be...bad.

He jumps to his feet and grabs the phone back. “Mom, please don’t try to take advantage of my girlfriend’s niceness when you can just  _ ask me _ . Of course I’d love to see you…” I can’t hear what he says next as he moves into the living room. 

I’ve never had a serious boyfriend before. I didn’t think about the family management involved. 

Three seconds later, my entire body starts to vibrate. Things actually  _ are  _ getting kind of serious between me and Josh. I just brought a  _ stack of clothes  _ to his apartment. It’s crazy that this is just hitting me since he  _ quit his job  _ for me. I flop back onto the bed, roll myself up in the duvet like a little Lucy burrito. I end up facing the nightstand. A tube of Flamethrower and the Celeste Ng novel I’m reading are sitting there.

“Okay, so my mom is going to come visit the weekend after Thanksgiving, so you may want to plan ahead for how much Elaine you can take-- Oh no, Shortcake. This seems like a freak out.”

“No,” I mumble.

“Yes.” Josh tugs the end of the blankets out of my hands and joins me in the burrito. “So, why don’t you tell me why we’re unmaking the bed at eleven in the morning?”

He’s very warm, pressed up against me. I wrap both my legs around one of his. He hikes the other one up around my waist. His jeans are rough where my sweater has ridden up. 

“You told my mom I’m your  _ girlfriend _ .” One of these days, surely, I will be less embarrassing. “You’re my  _ boyfriend _ .”

“Sure am.” 

“I brought clothes to your house! I’m just like this little gremlin invading your space!”

“I stole your Smurfs. I thought we agreed that was a sign that I wanted you to invade my space.”

I rub my nose against the v-neck of his soft t-shirt. He tucks my head under his chin. “We did.” My voice is muffled. “You’re just my  _ boyfriend  _ boyfriend and I just…”

“Needed to freak out for a minute?”

“Yeah, sorry.” 

He flips us over with his giant-man strength so that I am lying on top of him. “Oh please, Shortcake. I have had thirty years to practice not getting freaked out by my mom and sometimes it’s still a pretty close call.”

I peek up through my rapidly-frizzing hair. It’s getting possibly a little uncomfortably warm in the burrito. “I like your mom! And I want to see her when she visits. I just--”

“Needed to freak out for a minute.”

“Yeah.”

He wraps the burrito a little tighter. “I hear you, Shortcake. And I got you.

***

Elaine’s visit is nice. She gets in on Saturday afternoon full of excitement and plans. Patrick and Mindy are visiting her parents for the long holiday weekend--”You mean Dr. Templeman tore himself away from the hospital? Astonishing,” Josh mutters. I kick him under the table--so Joshua has her undivided attention. 

_ Save yourself _ , he mouths to me when she asks me what I’m doing after Sunday morning brunch. I have to kick him again. He’s going to have a sprained ankle by the time we’re done. 

Despite this, they clearly understand each other and I suspect they’re having a great time. The only lull is when the topic of Anthony comes up. “He’s... coming around, Josh,” she tells him, and it’s not clear to me if she’s full of crap or not. “Give him some time.”

“It’s been thirty years, but sure.” Josh looks exactly like he did that first day I met him, only this time, I give his elbow a squeeze. This doesn’t escape Elaine, and she looks soft and fond. Now that I’ve gotten to know her a little bit better--hell, now that I’ve gotten to know him a little bit better--I can see similarities that didn’t occur to me at the wedding. 

She tells Josh how handsome he looks every hour on the hour. Before she heads back home, she gives me a hug so tight that I’m pretty sure it cracks something. “So good to see you, Lucy,” she says, holding my face between her hands. “She’s good for you, Joshua. Try to hang on to her.”

It’s embarrassing but sweet. 

“You’re gonna dump me now, right?” Josh asks after he closes the door behind her. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holiday parties!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure I made up the idea of a joint holiday party? I just wanted them to be together. Also there is some sex but I don't think it's particularly explicit or anything but just an FYI in case that's not your jam. 
> 
> also sorry that it's very long but hopefully it will sustain you through your social distancing

Chapter Eleven

I am wrapping up notes on Editorial’s end-of-year report when Amanda knocks on my door. “It’s time for Holiday Extravaganza,” she reminds me, poking her head inside. 

Holiday Extravaganza is what Amanda and I have been calling the B&G holiday party, which this year is being co-hosted by a few other publishers. Bexley is very proud of it, billing it as an “industry event,” but we all know that it’s just because we’re still pretty broke and the co-host means that we can have better food and booze. 

Sanderson is one of the hosts. It’s either going to be really fun or deeply terrible. 

So much of the story of how I fell in love with Josh happened here at B&G that sometimes I’m shocked to realize that most of the people here still think that the two of us hate each other. 

There were a lot of reminders right after my promotion was announced. “Thank god it was you, Lucy,” Paul from design told me, pumping my hand enthusiastically. “Seriously, I don’t know what I would have done.” I had once found Paul doing breathing exercises after a particularly brutal line of questioning from Josh, so he didn’t seem like the right audience for extolling Josh’s virtues. 

(“Do you want me to set them straight?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask, Shortcake. I’ve been losing sleep over the good opinion of  _ Paul from design _ .”)

The event is relatively formal--Helene is big on the idea that seeing your coworkers looking their best every so often boosts morale, which is thin logic, but she’s in charge and so doesn’t have to defend it--so I’ve unearthed the robins-egg blue dress from Patrick’s wedding. It was too expensive not to re-wear and if it doesn’t exactly scream  _ holidays _ , then too bad. I’ve been too busy these last weeks to go shopping. 

Besides, I look very,  _ very  _ good in this dress. 

A door with a lock means I can change in my office, but I use the better lights and mirrors in the women’s room to touch up my makeup and perfume. Amanda is at the next sink, wearing a sleek silver sheath dress. “Great dress,” she tells me as I apply a spritz of perfume just under the neckline. 

“Thanks, yours too.”

She runs a hand down her sleek ponytail. “I was going for...angry candlestick who is a little sexy but doesn’t want to get hit on.”

“Nailed it.” It’s too bad Amanda doesn’t want to go into editorial work. She has a way with words. 

Five million little bobby pins later and I’ve wrangled my hair into a passably stylish updo. I throw on some dangly earrings and assess. Not bad for fifteen minutes in a staff bathroom. I give one extra coat of Flamethrower and don’t blot. Let my lipstick be shiny--it’s Christmas. 

The collective cabal of interns from Bexley and Gamin, Sanderson, and Nottinghouse have done a really nice job with the on-the-cheap event room rental. Someone with a good eye has masterminded a white and gold color scheme that looks crisp, classy, festive, and nondenominational. I hope that whoever it is works for Gamin’s design. 

There’s already a decent turnout; it isn’t empty, but not packed, and the high ceilings will keep things from getting claustrophobic even if there’s a sudden rush of employees looking to score on free booze. At B&G, at least, we were  _ highly encouraged  _ to attend by an HR underling who drew the short straw on nagging the staff. 

I spot Helene first, looking elegant (natch) in black, cradling a flute of champagne. Next, I see Amanda, chatting with Pamela and a few other B&G assistants. Then, finally, Josh, lurking predictably towards the back, trapped in conversation with an older lady who seems undeterred by his dead-eyed stare. 

I can tell when he spots me. His concrete facade cracks a little. When I mouth  _ Serial Killer Eyes _ he almost smiles. 

“--we were trapped on that accounting system for  _ years _ , even though we had to re-do half of it manually at the end of every quarter! It was a nightmare, I tell you, a nightmare.”

“Lucinda!” Josh says, a little too loudly. 

He looks almost unbearably handsome in a crisp navy suit that I don’t think I’ve seen before. Clutching a tumbler of scotch, he looks like he’s just escaped the set of  _ Mad Men, _ or maybe the most recent Superman flick. If Superman were really grouchy in social situations, that is. 

“Annette,” he says to the woman, “this is Lucinda Hutton, the COO at Bexley and Gamin.”

“Lucy.” I shake her hand. 

“My goodness, you are precious!” Annette coos. “And COO at your age? Brilliant as well. Now, goodness, I know it isn’t precisely polite to say anymore, but you should consider locking this one down, Mr. Templeman, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I do,” Josh says. 

I nudge him. “Ignore him,” I tell Annette. “He’s just being grumpy. It’s past his bedtime.”

Despite these assurances, Annette quickly edges away, mumbling about seeing...something. “God, Shortcake,  _ HR _ . Talking about my  _ bedtime _ .”

“I don’t think you can call HR on me anymore. But that lady could, so you might want to try being nice.”

He ignores that second part. “I probably could, if I put my mind to it. Look, there’s Jeannette.” He indicates with his glass and I give a little wave. Jeannette rolls her eyes. 

Sure enough, there are a few Gamins eyeing us nervously. It’s possible they’re just eyeing Josh nervously. Either way, they seem very interested to find me standing next to him. “People are looking at us,” I tell him. 

He gets a wicked gleam in his sapphire eyes. “They’re probably horrified at my lack of manners,” he says. He spreads a big hand against my low back, bends his head towards me. “I haven’t even gotten you a drink. So rude.” 

People are certainly staring now, as he directs me gently towards the bar, still murmuring. “Even worse, I didn’t tell you how beautiful you look, Shortcake. I hope you know that, even if that dress is dirty pool. This is a work event, after all.” He smells like peppermint and scotch. “It’s completely unfair of you to look this gorgeous.”

I mentally recite types of strawberries in hopes that it will keep me from blushing. 

Josh snags a flute of champagne from where a few are sitting ready and passes it to me. I take a hasty sip. “You look really nice, too. It’s crap how everything suits you.”

“I’ve told you before, Shortcake, you just think that because you’re obsessed with me. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

I am saved from making a spectacle of myself by stomping on his foot by Amanda’s approach. She’s accompanied by Margery, a former Gamin who looks enormously wary. 

Amanda is drinking a martini because she is fucking cool. 

“Tell me if I’m out of line here, but did one of you commit a murder?” You have to love a good opening line. “Because people are looking at you in, like, a  _ very  _ weird way.” She gives the jerked-chin bro greeting to Josh. “I’m Amanda Kwan, Lucy’s assistant.”

“Joshua Templeman.” He shakes her hand. “I’m director of Finance at Sanderson. Also, Lucinda’s boyfriend.”

Margery looks like her eyes are about to fall out of her head. Her gaze darts between the two of us. “Lucinda...Hutton?”

Amanda snaps her finger and points at Margery. “Yo! That’s the look. There is so definitely a story here. Please spill immediately.”

Margery is still processing this information. “But you...hate him, Lucy.” She’s whispering, as if this will save her from Josh hearing her. 

“I used to work at B&G, Bexley’s assistant. Lucinda and I worked together on the tenth floor.” 

“Do you want people to call you Lucinda? Have I been calling my boss the wrong name? That seems like it would be bad.” This is Amanda, to me. 

“No, please. Please still call me Lucy.”

Margery pulls us back on track. “But you both--you both hate each other. And  _ she-- _ ” she points to me “--beat  _ you _ \--” swinging to Josh “--for that promotion?”

“Nope,” Josh says. He is giving her his best stare. 

Poor, sweet Margery is so confused. “No?” I feel bad. A week ago she referred to this event, without a hint of irony, as her “favorite party of the year” so I really don’t want to ruin it for her. At least she’ll get some good gossip for the water cooler out of it. 

Josh is still staring. I have to save her. “We realized it was just a misunderstanding, and that we actually had more in common than we thought.” 

I need to make at least one friend with a sense of social niceties, because Josh just takes a noncommittal sip of his scotch and Amanda looks like she’s having a blast. Margery blinks, like she’s trying to understand how months and months of bitter acrimony could be a misunderstanding, but she’s too polite to say so. Maybe Margery will be my new friend. “How nice. So, um, how’s Sanderson, Josh?”

“Can’t say. Conflict of interest.” I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. 

“Right, right, well.” She looks at me like she’s not convinced that I’m not in some kind of hostage situation. “Oh, I see Glenn and his wife… I haven’t seen her in so long, I’m just going to…” She doesn’t bother to finish that sentence, just drifts off. About three seconds after she starts talking to Glenn and Mrs. Glenn, all three of them make a big production of oh-so-casually looking over at where we’re standing. 

Josh puts an arm casually around my shoulders and they all whip back around. 

“So I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it wasn’t just a misunderstanding.” Amanda pops an olive in her mouth. I have to remember to find some food before the champagne goes to my head. 

Maybe it’s because he’s heard me sing her praises, or maybe it’s because they have deeply similar energies, or maybe it’s just the scotch, but Josh actually cocks a half-grin at her. “Oh she hated my guts. Terrorized me for months while I secretly pined away for her.”

“That is a  _ highly  _ editorialized version of events.”

Josh is on a roll. “Snooped through my things, filed some highly suspect HR reports, refused to defend me in a paintball war.”

“I feel like there’s more context to that one.”

“There’s more context to  _ all of it _ .” I down my glass of champagne. 

Amanda is cracking up. “I feel like I have to take your version of events, because you’re my boss, even though I really want to believe his, because it’s way more entertaining.”

Josh notices that she and I both have empty glasses. “Such loyalty should be rewarded. Let me get you both new drinks. The same?” We both relay our orders and he heads off. 

“He seems cool,” Amanda says to me. 

I chuckle. “You and I are literally the only people in the room who think that. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him be so nice to a new person.” 

She puts a hand to her chest as if to say  _ who me _ ? “I’m touched.”

Over the next little while, I make the rounds, chatting with various B&G employees and trying to act like a grown-up executive type. We have a very awkward moment with Bexley, and a much nicer one with Helene. I meet a few people from Sanderson who are clearly already petrified of Josh. He is just as solicitous of me as he was at his brother’s wedding, although somewhat less hands-on, in deference to professionalism. About an hour or so after the event starts, though, that becomes a moot point, as everyone is well on their way to becoming properly soused.

Josh and I have snagged one of the high top tables that dot the edges of the room. I am inhaling a plate of tiny appetizers. They are very good, but there aren’t enough of them. 

When I look up from this important task, Josh has laser eyes locked on a curl that has fallen out of my updo and is resting against my collarbone. “You have a filthy look on your face,” I hiss at him. 

“You were wearing those earrings that day in the elevator.” His voice is pitched low. I give a frantic look around, but people are deep enough in their cups and conversations that the interest in us has died out. “I thought I had finally laid my perfect little trap that day. I still haven’t quite forgiven Fletcher for fucking that up.” He takes a sip of his scotch, then darts his tongue out to catch a drop on his lip. “Can you believe that I didn’t put it together when you came out all dressed up? I thought you’d figured me out. I thought maybe you wanted me.”

“I did. I just hadn’t figured it out yet.”

He steps closer. When we scored the table, I had made an ungainly little hop up into one of the high chairs, but Josh stayed standing. Now, he takes a step closer to me. It’s not an inappropriate distance, but tucked back away from everyone and with the soft, romantic glow of the fairy lights that are strung around, it feels intimate. 

“I had thought about that hair of yours for so long. You never manage to get it all when you put it up. Drove me insane, wanting to fix it.” In the last few months, I have learned that Josh has an enormous talent for riling me up with only his words. It’s like he takes all the energy that he used to channel into making me want to punch his smug face, and has refocused it into sex. I have also learned that in a survival situation like this one, the best chance of not turning into a walking bag of hormones is to just let him and try to ride it out. 

“Couldn’t stop watching you. Felt the same way the last time I saw you in this dress.” The barest touch of his suit jacket brushes my shoulder, then is gone. “Only then I could touch you. It’s that same torment all over again, seeing you there in a dress that I  _ know  _ you bought for me--don’t even try to deny it, Shortcake--and not being able to touch you. But I quite think we’ve provided enough gossip fodder for your underlings tonight, don’t you?”

“You’re a horrible person,” I tell him. 

“Oh, for sure. I have been having a million horrible, horrible thoughts all evening. And when we’re done here, I might do some horrible, horrible things.”

I covertly press my knee against his inner thigh. I am not as good a sweet-talker, but I’m not defenseless. 

Glancing around, I see that the crowd has thinned out. The fun young people have already left to go enjoy what’s left of their Friday nights somewhere more hip and the settled-in older crowd has left for a pleasant evening at home with their spouses and children. Most importantly, though, both Helene and Bexley are gone, which means I can go, too. “Okay, Templeman,” I say, trying not to show that I can feel every single cell in my body, “put your money where your mouth is.”

“Oh yeah?”

We make a pretty quick escape, hiding from potential conversations like it’s a covert operation, and by the time Josh flags down a cab, I’m giggling. I also have had a fair bit of champagne. 

The cab ride back to Josh’s apartment is too long. We sit respectably at opposite sides of the backseat, but Josh traces idle patterns on the inside of my knee while the cabby sings along merrily to 80s pop hits. His eyes are intense on me. I can’t reach him back and he takes full advantage, toying with the hem of my dress, skimming his fingers up the side of my arm so that the back of his hand just  _ just  _ brushes against my breast. 

By the time we arrive at his building, I am vibrating.

I tuck myself under Josh’s arm as we hurry through the lobby. Somehow I manage to squeak out a polite hello to Mrs. Lowenstein, who always makes polite lobby conversation on the rare occasion that I beat Josh home. The instant the elevator doors close, he has me up against the wall, one hand hiked up under my thigh. 

“Fucking finally, Shortcake,” he groans, nipping at my neck, my jaw. We are not kissing gently. I suck his lip into my mouth and his hips thrust against mine. His hands rake in my hair, tugging a tiny bit. I moan into his mouth. 

The elevator dings and we tear ourselves apart. I’m furiously checking my lipstick as the doors open, but the hall is empty anyway. I run my fingers over the edge of his belt, and his hand shakes a little as he tries to get the key in the lock. I toy with the lowest button of his shirt, which has come untucked a little. 

We finally get into the apartment. Josh slides my jacket off my shoulders and lets it drop onto the entryway floor, a sure sign that he’s really far gone. He hikes me up, hands under my thighs, and I writhe against him as he carries me into the bathroom. “Greedy,” he admonishes against my mouth. 

Instead of dropping me down on the bed, he sits himself and then lays back, settling me down so I’m straddling his waist. I make a desperate grab for him, but he grabs my hands, loosely shackling my wrists. 

“Why?” I wail. “Who made you this way?”

His smile is wicked. “All me, Shortcake. You should have seen me at Christmas when I was a kid.” He is toying with me, because he is an utter beast. From where I’m folded with my knees beneath me, he can get to everything with his giant’s reach. He keeps my hand in one of his and darts a playful touch to my ankle, my cheek, my hair, before settling in to trace the neckline of my dress. “I unwrapped everything so carefully that it slowed everything down. Drove everyone nuts except my grandmother, who liked to reuse the paper.”

He slides the strap off my shoulder. “Any chance we can not talk about your grandmother right now? Though I’m sure she’s a lovely woman.”

Josh chuckles. It never fails to stagger me, how my big, serious man, with all his intensity and discipline, likes to laugh when we’re in bed. “Fair enough, Shortcake. My point here--” he toys with the zipper of my dress, tugs it down a few inches. The strap slips lower and he lays his hand on my shoulder, his thumb resting in the notch of my throat. “--is that you’re far, far prettier than any present, so I think I’m going to take my time.”

He sits up slowly. Fucking  _ abs _ . He doesn’t even use his hands to help, instead moving to pull down the zipper a frustrating few more inches. We are chest to chest, still in all our clothes. I am boiling from the inside. I yank on my hands a little and he relents. I pull myself closer to him and pull the back of his shirt out from the waist of his pants. The skin of his back is warm. It is not enough contact. 

The buckle on his belt is digging into my inner thigh, probably about to snag the fine mesh of my stockings, but I’m almost sorry when he pulls it off. It was uncomfortable, but that discomfort may just have been the thing that saved my brain from melting and leaking out my ears. 

Josh starts pulling a thousand little pins out of my hair one by one, dropping them on the floor to the side of the bed. “You’re gonna get stabbed in the foot,” I warn him. 

“Worth it.” 

Finally, and with a great deal of fumbling, I manage to get the last button of his shirt undone. I shove it back off his shoulders and take a delicious moment of freeform groping while he pulls it off his wrists. “Beautiful,” I tell him, kissing along his shoulder. I think this is the first time I’ve ever managed to get him less dressed than I am. He slides his hand up the back of my skirt and I bite him a bit. He jolts. “Wicked.”

I push him back and he flops down. 

After a while, even his patience starts to wear thin. “Lucy,” he groans. 

Part of me feels like I’m about to die, but another, slightly larger part, is drunk on power. “Oh come on, Josh,” I croon into his ear. “What’s that thing you’re always saying about turnabout?”

He mumbles something inarticulate and tortured. I shift my weight so he can take off his pants. He rolls us so we’re side by side. “Oh you want to talk fair play, Lucinda?”

A bit later--and I could in no way say how much later, even under penalty of death--it is my turn to be inarticulate, barring the occasional whine of “Joshua,” “please,” and at one point, “I am going to murder you with extreme prejudice.” He laughs against my skin. When I reach into his nightstand, fumble around for a condom, and slap it against his chest, it is because I am about to die. 

“Horrible man. I love you.”

We stare from up close. “It’s better than I realized, Lucy.” His kiss is soft and sweet, the signal of his secret identity, the gentle part of himself that he hides. 

By the end, we are both left gasping and a thought from that first night jolts through me again. I know that I will never, ever get enough. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what if the dorks were worried? couldn't help myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that I've been getting slower here, folks! I promise there's still at least like...20 pages of content that I haven't posted, but I also have been a little stress monster who hasn't been writing, so I'm pacing it out a little. thanks again and always for your kind words/comments/kudos/etc.

Chapter Twelve

The rest of December rushes past, melting through Christmas and through New Years. I go back to Sky Diamond for the holidays, while Josh meets up with his mother. He is determined to keep working on their relationship, but refuses to stay at his parents’ house. Anthony still hasn’t caved and his son is just as stubborn. He asks me enough questions about my parents, about Javier and Lina, about our traditions and how prominently strawberries feature into them (answer: less than he thinks they should) that I know there’s still a tension between him, Patrick, and Elaine that he doesn’t wish to dwell upon. 

By the time I’m heading home, I miss him so much that it’s a distraction. “I’m being ridiculous,” I say to my mom, trying to laugh at myself. She arches an eyebrow and gives me a knowing look. It’s infuriating but probably not entirely wrong. 

Winter in the city is cold, damp, and miserable. Snow is not the fluffy thing of my agrarian childhood, but rather some alien substance that stays white for only an instance after hitting the ground before transforming into a nasty grey sludge. 

Then, in the second week of January, when the holiday charm of winter is wearing off and the doldrums are settling in, when my car breaks down. 

I have the immediate sinking suspicion that this is  _ the  _ breakdown.

This is partially because it’s just the perfect storm of shit. It has been so long since I’ve left work while the sun is still up that I’m not even sure what it looks like anymore. A lunch meeting got cancelled at the last minute so my blood sugar is at an all-time low. The sky is producing some kind of horrible freezing slush that can’t really be called rain or snow, but a sad, wet mix. I’m on the highway. 

I partially suspect that this is the end because my car makes a sound that I have never heard any car make before--a soft, sad choking, followed by a miserable barking gasp--right before it dies. 

I manage to wrangle the car to the side of the road before everything goes completely to hell, but it’s a near thing. 

For sixty seconds, I put my head down on my steering wheel and cry. The time limit is externally imposed by the truly threatening way my car rattles every time someone drives past. 

I try to start the car a few times. Nothing happens. It doesn’t even  _ try  _ to get itself going. I cry a little more. At least my hazard lights are still working. That slightly reduces my chances of death, I think. 

This has never happened to me before, and it feels like one of those moments where I need a real adult. It’s like a friendly sign from the universe that even though I have been experiencing professional and personal success of late, I am still the same old Lucy who recently bought an oversize old man’s sweater out of a discount bin in a thrift store. 

It isn’t a great feeling. 

I genuinely consider calling my dad, as he has decades of experience keeping his truck running and also has borne witness to basically every embarrassing moment of my entire life and still loves me anyway, but there’s probably not much he can do from five hundred miles away. 

He would be very sympathetic, though. And almost certainly would not say that he told me so. 

I call Josh. 

“Hey, Shortcake, I’m at the gym,” he says by way of greeting. There’s a cacophony of clanking and masculine grunting in the background. I am abstractly terrified of Josh’s gym, based on the few times I’ve called him while he’s there. It all seems very stressful and performative. I once asked Josh if he liked the people there and he looked at me like he literally did not understand the question, which I should have seen coming. “Are you home?”

“Uh, no.” I try not to sound like I’ve been weeping. I clearly sound like I’ve been weeping. “My car broke down.” 

There’s a louder, more urgent clang, and I realize that he didn’t even need to put his weights down to answer the phone. In any other circumstance, that information would feel very important. 

“Shit, Lucy, where are you?”

“Pulled over off the highway.” The roaring from the other cars is loud enough that he can probably hear it. On the bright side, maybe it drowns out the pathetic note in my voice. 

“Okay. Don’t get out of the car, it’s not safe. Text me your location. I’ll be right there.” His authoritative tone is comforting. I pretend that I don’t know that sometimes that tone is bullshit. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, I run the gamut of emotional responses. First, I feel disgusted with myself for calling Josh, like I need him to rescue me. I am a competent adult woman who is perfectly capable of sorting out her own messes! Then I consider that when your car breaks down on the side of the highway, at night, in the freezing rain, that there is basically no alternative to calling someone to come get you. And adult competent women are still allowed a good cry when they’ve had a crappy day. I spend a few minutes feeling pathetic, half because of the situation, half for being so hard on myself, which I realize is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I take a few deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth, like they teach you in yoga classes, and call Jerry, my mechanic. When I tell him that someone is coming to pick me up, he tells me just to leave the car with the flashers on (“yeah, yeah, I’ll recognize it”--he’s practically seen the car more than I have, this past year) and unlocked (“if it’s not turning on, ma’am, I sort of doubt anybody is gonna be able to steal it” when I balk at this) and he’ll send a tow truck within the hour. 

I am feeling marginally more settled and rather pleased with my go-getter attitude when Josh’s car pulls up behind me. He leaves on his headlights, throws on his hazard lights, and is out of the car in an instant. 

When I get out to meet him, he pulls me into a brief, crushing hug. “God, Lucy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say as he puts an arm around me and hustles me back towards his car, watching the road anxiously for traffic. He helps me in on the passenger side and then has to wait a minute to let a car pass before he can open the driver’s side door. We’re both unpleasantly damp. “So I called Jerry, and he said he’s on his way, just to leave--”

He grabs my face in both hands and kisses me, cutting me off. “Sorry, Shortcake--sorry.” He looks flustered, distressed in a way I’ve rarely seen him. “Are you really okay?”

The dim, variant light of the headlights of passing cars casts him in high relief. Moisture glistens on his hair, the slush not yet entirely melted. “I’m really fine. Are  _ you  _ okay?”

He looks at me for a second more, gives a little sigh, and then turns on the car, puts on his blinker, and carefully maneuvers into traffic. “I just… When I was a kid, my mom would come home from work, and a lot of the time her surgeries would have been because of car accidents. And you know how they used to tell you to get out of the car if you were on the highway, but then they changed it to say that you should absolutely stay in the car, because the other cars were more likely to see a whole car than just a tiny person--especially an exceptionally tiny person like you?”

“Sure,” I say, because he seems like he wants an answer but also like he’s on a roll. 

“Well, when Patrick and I learned to drive, my mom told us some choice horror stories to, I dunno, terrify us into driving safely? I mean, we were teenagers, so we just said like, ‘yeah, mom, of course, we hear you, we’ll be super safe’ and never thought about it again, until today, when all of a sudden I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” 

We reach a red light. Josh still doesn’t look at me. He runs a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe something away. “I knew you were probably fine, and that you were in the car and had your phone and everything, but I couldn’t stop hearing my mom telling us all these horrible stories and, and I just got very in my head about the whole thing.” He lets out a huff of air. 

I know I should be more sensitive of his feelings, especially since he is not always the most emotionally forthcoming person, but I am oddly touched. I try to keep from sounding pleased when I say, “You were worried about me.”

Maybe it was the perfect thing to say, because his head snaps over to me. He looks annoyed, which is better than stressed. He can only glower at me a moment, though, because the light turns green. “Christ, Lucinda, you don’t have to sound so happy about it. The drive over probably took a year off my life.”

It’s such a typically Josh response that I struggle not to laugh. The weather is horrible, and it’s going to take forever to dry out my wool coat, and my car is probably dead, and my job has been fully kicking my ass, but the knowledge that I can call Josh in crisis and he will not only care but actually  _ worry  _ about my crisis is somehow so lovely that it makes me giddy. 

“It’s just sweet,” I tell him. I definitely sound a little giggly. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Lucy, I’m not  _ sweet _ .” He’s disgusted. Also, I suspect, a little embarrassed. “You’re my girlfriend. I love you. I’m allowed to worry. It’s just baseline decency, settle the fuck down.” 

I have to look out the passenger side window so that he can’t see that I have to press my fingers to my mouth to hold in my laugh. I have somehow forgotten about reflections, which seems particularly foolish given our origins, and he catches sight of me in the dark window. “Stop that. It isn’t funny.” He’s so stern. I am fully laughing now. I don’t know how I held it in all those months when we were enemies. 

He looks crossly out the windshield and drives with an intense sort of caution for the next minute or so, until we arrive at his building. 

“I wasn’t laughing at your feelings,” I say. Josh throws the car into park and takes my hand. 

“I know,” he says. “I know your moods by now, you tempestuous little monster.” He always insults me in the best ways. 

“You can say bad things about my car if you want.”

He perks up a bit at this. “Is it bad that I hope it is forever dead? It really is such a shitty car. You got a promotion. It would literally cost you less to get a new car. Then you could join us all in the twenty-first century. It has a tape deck, Lucinda.  _ A tape deck _ .” 

“I love that car!” I protest more out of habit than anything else. 

“That’s called Stockholm Syndrome, Shortcake. It’s not real love, you’re just afraid to live life free from the shackles of horrendous mechanic payments.” 

“Well, today may have decided that one for me. It was a deeply alarming sound.”

He leans over and presses a long kiss to my temple. His nose is cold but his mouth is warm. “Not that I’m happy about your pain, but good. Now, let’s go inside before we both freeze to death.” 

Just crossing the parking lot sets us both shivering again, so when we get inside Josh makes huge mugs of tea, and I pull the warm duvet off the bed, and we curl up on the couch and it is very warm, and soft, and safe. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, pals! I have been a home stress monster, as you may imagine. stay home, stay safe, stay healthy! much love.

Chapter Thirteen

We have made many jokes about going to the farmer’s market, almost like we’re trying to talk ourselves out of it, but Josh wants to rifle through cheap vegetables, and I want to eat artisanal sweets, so we go. It’s early enough in the year that it’s still bitterly cold, so the crowds are relatively thin and give off the impression that they are farmer’s market die-hards. They move through the stalls with a ruthless efficiency and many reusable tote bags. 

Josh and I are not nearly as practiced or speedy, so I fluff up my scarf, pull down my hat, and buy myself a hot chocolate that’s bigger than my face. It’s made with whole milk and fresh whipped cream that I could see them making inside their little booth. It’s delicious and decadent and so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. I’m in love. 

I am trying to cajole Josh into trying some, which is a very safe prospect, because even if I succeed, he’ll never take more than a sip, so I’m in no danger of actually having to share, when I think I hear someone calling my name. 

I look around, but carefully. My drink is far too good to risk spilling any. Josh steps in closer, very obviously blocking my view with his height and general buff masculinity. 

“Well that is weird and very transparent,” I say. 

“I am looking at the bok choy,” he replies. “We have some ginger that I’ve been meaning to use. Maybe a nice soup.” 

“Yes, I absolutely believe you.” I peek around him. 

Oh dear. “Lucy! I thought that was you! And Josh! Hi!”

It’s Mindy Templeman. And, a few feet behind her, tapping earnestly on his phone, Patrick.

I do my very, very best not to make a face at Josh that suggests that I think this is a big deal. This is particularly hard, harder than it was at the wedding, because I am now deeply in the habit of making faces at Josh, and I’m pretty sure this is about to be a big deal. I am uncertain of my success, but Mindy seems like she’s too nice to say anything. 

I grasp Josh firmly by the arm and guide him to turn around. The bok choy ruse is up. 

“Hi Mindy!” I try to say this as brightly as possible, to make up for the fact that I probably very clearly made a face when I saw her. 

It seems impossible, but she looks even better than she did at the wedding. Or maybe it’s just that the way she looks this morning--a pair of leggings, sneakers, an impressively sleek parka, and one of those ear-warming headbands that would make my hair look like an angry cloud--makes it clearer that she’s a deeply beautiful woman. Everybody looks good in a wedding gown and professional hair and makeup. Mindy Templeman looks lovely shopping for okra. 

“I’m so glad to run into you guys!” She reaches out and touches my forearm. “I can’t believe we haven’t seen you since the wedding.” Josh says nothing, but at least he gives kind of a little nod to indicate he’s heard her. She seems to take this as a sign that she should refocus her conversation on just me. “These two are terrible at making plans. We should see each other more, since we’re local, don’t you think?” Her smile is sweet.

Despite myself, I really like Mindy. It seems unfair that someone should be so beautiful, but also so nice, and also be able to touch near-strangers like me in a way that doesn’t seem gross or aggressive but instead just like it’s a gesture of how much she really likes you, in a slightly maternal way. Also, she has seen my boyfriend naked, which is not something I feel great about. But I still like her, goddamn it. 

“That would be great,” I say. 

I look up meaningfully at Josh. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and tugs me close. I run my free hand up his back in what I hope is a reassuring gesture. “Yeah, Mindy, that would be great,” he says gamely. 

Mindy looks back at Patrick and clears her throat. He glances at his phone once, twice more, then tucks it in his pocket and finally joins us. There’s an awkward lull. I briefly hate this moment of the genteel womenfolk corralling their grouchy men. I refuse to play this game. Josh is doing his stony-faced thing, but he is a fully grown man, and he can talk--or not talk--to his own brother. 

“Mindy,” I say when this continues, “they are selling apple cider donuts over there. Would you like to split one?” I, personally, would prefer to eat a whole donut, but asking to split one seems like it will make her more likely to walk away with me. 

“Oh, um, sure!” She seems gently pleased. 

“Rad. Joshua, please play nice with the other children.” Josh looks resigned. Patrick looks aghast. Mindy and I walk away. 

I am snagging a peach sample a few stalls away when she starts to laugh. “I never knew how to handle Josh’s moods--” I don’t  _ love  _ talking about how she and Josh used to date, but I soldier on in the name of bonding “--and drove us both nuts trying to fix things, but you just call him on his crap! It’s incredible.” She nudges me conspiratorially with her shoulder. 

I give an expressive shrug, faux cool. “I spent so much time wanting to kill him when we worked together that I had to figure it out or go insane. You’d be surprised how much overlap there is now that we’re together.” 

We round a corner where a hipster is playing a deeply unfortunate version of “Shine Bright Like a Diamond” on an acoustic guitar. Mindy fishes a dollar out of her pocket and drops it in his case. 

I can see my breath, so I take a bracing gulp of my hot chocolate, which is cooling down more quickly than I would like in this weather. Even approaching lukewarm, it’s so good that I do a happy little shiver. Mindy notices. “Oh my god, is that from the hot farmer guy on the corner? I  _ love  _ those.” I don’t know what’s more surprising, that Mindy has the same taste in childish drinks that I do, or that she described someone as a “hot farmer guy.” She’s not wrong, though. 

“It’s literally the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I tell her. We’re coming up on the donut hut. The line is long. These farmer’s market people have good taste. “Do you want a sip?” I hastily try to wipe the Flamethrower lip print off the ridge. 

She reaches for it, then snatches one hand back, like a kid caught trying to sneak a treat. “I super do, but I’m lactose intolerant. I usually get mine with soy.” She gives the cup in my hand one more longing look, and I shake it temptingly. She shakes her head decisively. Her hair is so shiny. I wonder what kind of product she uses. “Maybe if we weren’t about to get donuts, but I think I can last a few minutes more without sugar.” 

“I admire your restraint.” 

The line shuffles forward. A little girl in a stroller a few spots ahead of us is gleefully shouting, “Do-nuts! Do-nuts!” and banging her little fists. Her dad shushes her halfheartedly, urging her to be patient. Mindy smiles at her with a note of wistfulness. I remember what Josh said about wishing Mindy and Patrick a hundred years and ten babies, and think that Mindy might wish the same. 

We move a few more steps ahead and she refocuses. “Do you think they’re still just standing there staring at each other?” She casts her voice low, like we might have somehow missed two giants sneaking within earshot of the donut line. Mindy is clearly inexperienced in the ways of sass, but I applaud her efforts. 

I pretend to consider. “It’s possible they’re staring at vegetables.”

Her giggle is sharp and high-pitched. It suits her. “They are both  _ such  _ health freaks.”

“I was trying to get Josh to try my hot chocolate and he wouldn’t! I’m sad that he lives in a world without this hot chocolate.”

Mindy puts on a very serious face, and lays a hand on my arm. “Be careful. One time I got Patrick to try mine, and then the next time he insisted he didn’t want one, but still drank like half!”

“No!” I’m playing along but also part of me is legitimately upset. That is a common and egregious food sin. 

She nods solemnly. “And I can only imagine how much better it must be with real milk. It's good there are two of us, otherwise we might actually become people who--” she pauses dramatically "--think _fruit_ is dessert." She puts a hand over her heart, as if having a moment of silence for the very idea. We hold it together for a moment, then both crack up. 

As we buy our donuts (we do  _ not  _ share one) I consider how much I actually do really like Mindy. We’re really different, and standing next to her I feel like what a child would imagine a grown-up to be rather than a real adult woman, but she’s funny. Easy to talk to. We’ll probably never be friends, not really, not with the weird histories between Patrick and Josh and even Josh and Mindy between us, but I’ll be happy to sit next to her at any Templeman family events. 

I start to feel a minor freak-out coming on at the potential thought of my being at future Templeman events, but I squash that thought down deep. Not the time, Hutton. 

The donuts are massive and still hot out of the fryer. When we’re done, I lick my fingers clean. I could do this farmer’s market thing, if this is the kind of snacks they have. God knows I have enough cutesy tote bags. When Mindy hugs me goodbye and says that Josh and I should come over for dinner soon, I tell her that I’ll work on Josh. She winks knowingly. 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

“Let’s take a trip, Shortcake.” 

I’m inhaling a takeout container full of noodles at my desk, talking to Josh over speakerphone. I have managed to get this COO business under control enough that I’m only stuck in the office late about once a week. Some days I get home earlier than I did when I was Helene’s assistant. To be fair, I have more motivation now. Evenings with Josh hold more appeal than evenings alone in my cold apartment, mainlining chamomile tea, watching Netflix on my laptop ever did. 

I hastily swallow my lo mein. “A trip? Where?”

“Well, we’ve already been to Sky Diamond, and I was thinking a weekend away, which is a short turnaround for Tuscany, so I’m open to suggestions. Maybe Vermont or something?”

“Joshua Templeman, I will  _ not  _ go camping with you.” I gesture with my chopsticks for emphasis, even though he can’t see me. 

He chuckles. “Oh no? Darn, when I came up with this idea, I really thought that we could just spend some time getting back to nature. Just try really roughing it. You know, because I know you so well.”

“Funny.”

“I sure think so. Oh wait, hang on Shortcake.” Someone is knocking on his door. “I’m gonna mute you for a second.” 

We’re pretty good with the confidentiality stuff that comes with working for the competition. Josh is stunningly efficient at his job and Sanderson saw really impressive improvements in their financials last quarter, but my ebook project is looking like it will be really profitable for B&G, which puts us in this delightful sweet spot where I get to be happy for us both while also satisfying that competitive itch. 

I double check the numbers on an expenditure report from Publicity. Things are looking good, and I feel a rush of gratitude for people who are good at their jobs. In about an hour, I should be out of here. 

I have a mouthful of noodles when Josh comes back on the line. “Thanks, Luce, it’s always something around here. At least that was somebody who knows her stuff.”

“No problem,” I mumble, my mouth half-full. My parents would be appalled at my table manners. I dab at my face with a scratchy takeout napkin. “So you want to go anywhere but camping?”

“To clarify, I personally would be happy to go camping. I just wouldn’t take you with me.”

“Rude, Templeman! Or maybe very sweet. Can’t decide.”

“I vote sweet. Anyway, we don’t have to decide right now, but I was thinking like a cabin, or a bed and breakfast or something.” 

For reasons I can’t quite pin down, it is unquestionably hilarious to hear Joshua Templeman say the words “bed and breakfast.” 

“You know, so we can do what we normally do at home, but surrounded by rolling hills instead of hearing the kid upstairs bounce his basketball against the wall.” 

“It’s only really annoying when he does it at night.” I’m getting sidetracked. “And I think his mom made him stop.”

“And yet the absence of rolling hills, Shortcake.”

“And yet.” My sweet dork has a secret romantic streak. “Let’s do it. I’ll come up with some good ideas, by which I mean you already have an idea that you’re attached to, you little control freak.”

He gives a disgruntled garble. I would bet money that he wants to laugh. He pitches his voice lower, as if he’s worried that someone will hear him being kind, thus destroying his reputation as a soulless automaton. “I wish I was gonna get to see you tonight, Shortcake.”

“Me too.”

“Sucks to go home without you.”

“Yeah, it does.” I try to tell myself sternly that it’s foolish to feel sad. I will see him tomorrow. I’m being  _ ridiculous _ . It’s the same feeling I used to get when I was convincing myself that I hated Josh. I’m either very good or very bad at lying to myself. 

We’ve managed to bum ourselves out. Josh clears his throat. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work, I’m already going to be stuck here half the night.”

“I’m sorry, sweets. I love you.”

“Love you too, Shortcake.”

I haven’t been to my apartment in days. Last time I was here was over the weekend with Josh, who cleaned everything while I was on Skype with my parents. When I shouted at him to cut it out and come say hi, he called “Hi Annie! Hi Nigel!” and lobbed a handful of soap suds at me. The apartment is too clean now. I huff around and leave a halfhearted mess--a half-drunk mug of tea here, some junk mail there. I shove down the fleeting thought that this doesn’t help because it doesn’t feel like home anymore. 

That is not a feeling I am willing to have, so I pop a bag of microwave popcorn, wrap myself up in my duvet like it’s a warm, snuggly cloak, and munch my way through a few episodes of  _ E.R.  _ I text Josh about any medical inconsistencies I spot. I’m getting better at it. Soon enough, warm and fed and full of chamomile, sleepiness overcomes my unsettled emotions. 

**Joshua Templeman:** Goodnight, Dr. Shortcake. 

**Lucy Hutton:** Goodnight, Dr. Josh

***

It turns out that I was completely right, and Josh  _ did  _ have an idea of where we wanted to go. He’s annoyed that I called it and puts on an elaborate show where we search for possible locations before revealing his grand plan. It’s unbelievably obvious that he had the ideal location in his back pocket. It’s too perfect otherwise. 

Calmly, I take the laptop from his hands and put it on the coffee table. I turn to face him. 

The weather has dipped cold again, as if winter had to claw at us one last time before giving way to spring. I have taken the opportunity to wear all my favorite wintery items one last time before shuffling them away to the back parts of the closet I can’t reach easily. It’s a semiannual event that involves a stepladder. So today I am wearing tights  _ and  _ wool socks, a floral skirt that I’ve had for years that flutters cheerily when I walk, and Josh’s bulkiest sweater. I’m swimming in clothes. 

“Joshua.” I prop up on my knees. “Why did you make us do the work of looking up places when you had clearly already done the work of looking up places?”

He points at the computer as if it holds the answer. “I was being flexible!”

I nod solemnly. I am the mean schoolmarm from every movie about the perils of Victorian education. “Were you really being flexible, Joshua, or were you just pretending to be flexible?”

He scowls. “Stop calling me Joshua.” I wait, arch an eyebrow. “Will you forgive me for making you do pointless work if I make you a sandwich?”

“Yes, absolutely.” 

While he’s in the kitchen, I snuggle myself into the blankets. I brought my favorite throw from my apartment. It’s ancient and so soft. 

“I would have forgiven you for far less than a sandwich,” I tell him when he hands it to me. “I thought you worked with money for a living. You're terrible at negotiating.”

He shrugs and takes half. I make a grab for it, but he tucks me into his side and hands me the other half on the plate. The man makes an incredible sandwich. This one has thick-cut sourdough and fancy mustard and sprouts and chicken that he cooked himself, not even the slimy deli kind. I am spoiled senseless on his good cooking. I choose to assume that I contribute color and culture to our domestic scenes, because I will never, ever make food this good. 

We eat curled up on the couch, scrolling through the listing for the cabin that Josh obviously meticulously researched. (“I was starting to go a little nuts over a contract issue, so I started looking on my lunch breaks,” he admits a little while in.) The property is beautiful, one of a little handful of cabins in a small town on the Maine coast. (“I thought you said Vermont,” I comment. “I was being flexible!”) Neither of us is particularly religious, so we decide to go for the long weekend over Easter, so we can steal the extra Monday off. 

I shouldn’t be surprised--if Josh is good at anything, it’s details--but I’m struck by how perfect this place is. The weather will still be chilly when we go, but that seems fitting for the rocky grey beaches. There’s a town nearby that has a few restaurants with good reviews and--I give a squeak of excitement--the people who own the property keep their own chickens and goats. 

“Spring is baby goat season,” Josh tells me. “They do guided visits.” 

I do a dramatic swoon into his lap. “Too cute to live.” I let my hand flop limply on my brow. 

To cap it all off, the whole damn property is perched on a cliffside. 

“There’s a full kitchen in the cabin,” Josh is explaining, “but I guess they also do breakfast up at the main house, if we don’t feel like cooking. It sort of seems like we can be on our own or have stuff to do with other people, whatever we feel like. I promise to play nice with the other children.”

I reach up and run my fingers through his hair. “You’re pretty great, you know that?” I tell him. 

He looks down and then away. “I’ve never been great at romantic stuff, Shortcake.” He shrugs. “But I like doing stuff for you.”

“You know I don’t need you to prove it, or anything, right?” Sometimes I worry he thinks that. Worry that all the times people made him feel like he wasn’t good enough, or that he had to prove his value, or that he was just a pretty face still weigh on him too heavily. I will rip apart all the people who made him feel insignificant and, failing that, will tell him how wonderful he is until he drowns in love. 

He looks at me again and smiles and I know I’ve said the right thing. “I know, Lucinda. I like it anyway.” 

We barely move for the rest of the afternoon and it’s perfect. 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trip time! in case you need some voyaging content while we're all stuck at home

Chapter Fifteen 

“Call me if you need me, but also please do not need me,” I tell Amanda. “I mean, don’t feel bad about calling if you have to, but I might not get back to you right away.” It is literally the first time since my promotion that I’m leaving before five o’clock. I have been working in a frenzy all week to make sure this happens because, as Josh has been reminding me  _ incessantly,  _ if we don’t get on the road by three, we won’t get to the restaurant he wants to try in New Hampshire and still get to the cabin before check-in ends at ten thirty and then I will be hungry and we will be late and our vacation will be ruined. 

He has not expressly said this last part, but it has been clearly implied. 

“If there are any publishing emergencies on a Friday afternoon before a long weekend in an industry that is notorious both for crises and for working long hours, I promise that I will call you,” Amanda vows. She has been very patient with me the last few days. I make a mental note to bring her back some nice candy or a lobster roll or something. 

“You’re the best,” I tell her. 

“I’m absolutely the best,” she agrees. “Now go! Have fun! I’ve pre-bullied Dan, so nothing and nobody is going to bother you.” She points towards the exit authoritatively and I go. 

I’m waiting for the elevator when my phone buzzes. 

**Joshua Templeman:** I’m downstairs in the carpark

**Joshua Templeman:** I can’t believe they still had me on the list. You have garbage security here. I could totally be a disgruntled former employee. You should look into that. 

**Joshua Templeman:** Anyway, I wish I could say I’m not rushing you but... 

**Joshua Templeman:** please hurry

**Joshua Templeman:** I know you struggle to say no to people, so if anyone starts walking towards you, look at your phone like there’s something important so they go away. I believe in you, Lucinda, you can do it

What a nerd. 

I tucked my weekend bag into his trunk this morning, so all I have when I get downstairs is my regular work bag, a streamlined tote that I splurged on when I got promoted. I open the passenger seat of Josh’s car and sling it behind my seat. “You are  _ absolutely  _ a disgruntled former employee.” 

He leans over and kisses my cheek. “Not the dangerous kind, though.” 

I look him over appraisingly. “Depends on what kind of dangerous you mean.” It is a joy to flirt with him. 

Josh ignores me and backs out of the space. “Keep the Horny Eyes to yourself, Shortcake, or we’re never going to get there.” We aren’t late, but he clearly  _ feels  _ like we’re late. He’s always on time for everything, so I’ve never seen him like this before. I think of the six hours of torture ahead of me and shiver deliciously. I want to play like this forever. 

We make good time out of the city, and Josh relaxes a smidge. Because I am basically a child, I am immediately lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of highway driving, and only wake up when I have to pee. I honestly hit the jackpot when I somehow tricked Josh into loving me, because I am quite intolerable on long car trips. 

We must have been getting ahead of schedule while I slept, because Josh is cheerfully amenable to stopping. “We could use a gas fill-up anyway. Also, you’re drooling.” I scrabble furiously at my face, and manage to smudge my lipstick everywhere. Josh produces a miniature pack of kleenex from the center console like the overgrown Boy Scout that he is, and I try to do a quick clean-up job. I don’t really get the job done until the beat-up but fortunately clean gas station bathroom. 

I take over driving for the next shift. The highway winds north, surprisingly empty for the Friday before a long weekend. The trees and hills look softer in the fading light of early spring, and the effect is hypnotic. Josh looks like he’s feeling it, too. He’s pushed the passenger seat back as far as it will go, and has leaned it back a bit. One leg is stretched out ahead of him, the other half-folded and leaning against the door. His head lolls lazily and his smile is sleepy. He is so beautiful that my heart aches. I can hardly believe he’s mine. 

“Comfy?” I ask. 

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” He reaches over and rests one hand against the nape of my neck under my hair. His hand gets heavier as he falls into a doze. It’s not exactly comfortable--the weight of his arm is making me hunch forward a little--but it’s comforting. 

My stomach is starting to grumble as we pull into the restaurant that Josh has chosen, and I’m impressed anew with his scheduling prowess. He shifts as the car stops, but doesn’t wake up. I realize a little belatedly that Josh needs a weekend to unwind more than he has let on. He’s so phenomenally competent so much of the time that it isn’t always obvious that he’s doing a good job of hiding his stress, as well. 

A piece of hair has flopped over his forehead. I push it gently back and he flutters awake. “Ready for food?” I ask, finger-combing the piece when it tries to flop forward again. 

He kisses the center of my palm. “Let’s do it.”

The place is a run-down little diner. “This reminds me of the place we stopped on the way to Patrick’s wedding!” 

Josh puts a fond arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, I thought it was kind of our thing. Our road trip thing.” He scrunches his face at me at his own sentimentalism. I scrunch mine back. “That was just a random place. This one apparently has meatloaf that’s incredible.” 

A waitress wearing an old-style diner uniform gives us the “one second” hand gesture as she makes the rounds with a pot of coffee. 

“I am absolutely not ordering meatloaf.” 

“The club sandwich also got some solid reviews. I believe it comes with fries.”

This boy knows all the corners of my tiny gremlin heart. 

When the waitress seats us, we both slide into the same side of the booth, like a pair of lovesick fools. Despite his big talk, Josh doesn’t order the meatloaf, opting instead for a salad with grilled chicken. I shoot him a disappointed look--a salad? At a diner?!--but when he lets me try it, it’s actually pretty good. Service is quick, good, and cheap. 

Josh takes over driving again for the final stretch. The hilly greens have given way to rocky cliff sides that are no less picturesque. We can’t see much in the dark, but it’s still nice. The driving is easy enough that Josh takes my hand. I don’t get tired of any of it. 

The GPS leads us to a sign, clearly hand-carved, that says BOOTHSBAY VILLAGE CABINS, illuminated by a flood lamp. The light casts widely enough to reveal another, more homemade sign that says Main House/Check-In with a slightly crooked arrow pointing to the left. The narrow drive is lined with round white stones, like Roxaboxen. 

The Main House is clearly a house first with the check-in retrofitted. The enclosed porch is cozy, cluttered with chintzy pillows and afghans that have seen better days. I love it instantly. I bet it’s making Josh itch. A woman in a sweatshirt festooned with children’s handprints and “We Love You, Gramma!” is sitting in an armchair, reading a well-creased Harlequin paperback with a shockingly buxom brunette swooning into the arms of a shirtless Fabio type. The only thing that offsets the old-fashioned vibe is the sleek iPad on the rickety old card table next to her. 

“Golly, you’re tall,” she says cheerfully as we walk up. “And you’re so little! Anyway, you must be my last check-ins. I’m Martha, proprietress.” She stands, and lays the book aside. 

“Lucy Hutton.” She shakes my hands in both of hers. I look up at Josh. “And Joshua Templeman.”

She kisses her hand and pats it onto his cheek. Bless her. 

“Okay, you two adorable kids are in Cabin 4--don’t worry, it’s the one you saw in your reservation.” She taps authoritatively on the iPad. “I’m finally getting the hang of this thing. My granddaughter is a physician’s assistant,” she points at the largest handprints on what is apparently a quite old sweater, “and she told me this is how they set up all their appointments. Never thought I’d ditch the old logbook, but I have to admit that she’s right, this is better. Okay, Templeman… Ah, Templeman! If you would just sign here.” She turns the screen towards Josh.

A few pleasantries later, we have keys in hand, a property map, directions, and strict encouragement to watch the sunrise over the bay one of the mornings we’re here. 

We see a few distant lights as we wind down towards Cabin 4; it’s just remote enough to feel private but not so much to feel isolated or horror movie-ish. The key sticks a little but when the door swings open it’s gorgeous, a streamlined, elegant version of Martha’s comfy country porch. 

I give a happy little squeak and throw my arms around Josh, who is holding all the heavy stuff. He drops the bags on the floor to scoop me up instead, kicking the door shut behind him. I wrap my legs around his waist. “Happy, Shortcake?”

“Very.” 

He kisses me deeply, soft at first, then harder when I give him a soft nip of encouragement. It seems impossible that it is this good, that it’s always this good, but it is, it always is. We are sloppy and eager, making out standing up like teenagers. Josh is practically polite about it, with one hand at the back of my neck and using his forearm, rather than his hand, to prop me up. When I start murmuring little pleas for him to move, to touch me, to do  _ anything _ , he smiles and shakes his head a little, and I realize that he’s planned it. I hate him for his calculating mind. 

Josh walks us towards the bedroom and I marvel over his ridiculous strength. It still makes me nervous in a pleasant, shivery way. He puts me gently back on the bed, but steps out of reach as I grab for him. The glint in his eye is scheming. Dangerous. “Patience, Shortcake.” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair like the rake he is. I have to bite back a howl. “We have a whole weekend. No need to rush things.” He’s laughing as he heads off to unpack. What a  _ monster _ . 

Ah, I think distantly. I’m going to die. In a remote cabin in the woods. Fitting. Despite myself, I can’t be mad about it. Death by sexual tension. What a way to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I have been very slow with updates because of...the many stressors in all of the world rn...but please know that I love you all (and YOU, individually, we both know that you personally are my favorite) and that your comments keep me going and that I am sitting down to my computer today and you rule and things will be better soon ily


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the lovely comments!!! you are a dream, a ray of sunshine in these dark times xx

Chapter Sixteen

I was right the first time around: Joshua Templeman is a total bastard. 

I vow this to myself late Friday night, looking at his smug, self-satisfied face. “You’re a terrible person,” I had whimpered miserably as we played our games. “The worst,” Josh agreed. 

Now, though, curled up in bed on Saturday morning in a remarkably soft bed, Josh curled up behind me, jelly-limbed and in that half-space between asleep and awake, I’m finding it hard to hold to my convictions. I’m tired, want to be sleeping more, but this persistent sunshine is disrupting my goal. I try to roll over, away from the window, but Josh’s position makes it hard. 

“Sleep more, Shortcake,” he mumbles, squeezing tighter around my middle. “Early. Comfortable.”

I try to stay still, but the sun has woken me up too much, and I’m wiggly. He slips his hand under my shirt and spreads it across my ribs. If he thinks this is going to put me back to sleep, he has woefully miscalculated. My wiggles take on a different character. To be fair, so do his groans. 

Vacation rules. 

I roll over until I’m on top of him. Suddenly he’s very, very awake. “Hello,” he says. 

I touch the very tip of my nose to the very tip of his, and try not to breathe on him too much because morning breath. His eyes are so blue. “Joshua Templeman.”

“Lucinda Hutton.”

“We have three whole days to do whatever we want.” I am positively giddy at the thought. Between us, most weekends have a few hours where either Josh or I have work to do, but this time we left our computers at home, and cell signal up here is a bit thin. I’m not exactly a back to nature-type girl, but getting a little distance from civilization feels really good right now. 

“Oh yeah?” Josh reaches up and tucks a curl behind my ear. “And what do you want to do?” 

I pop up. “Breakfast! Shower and then breakfast!”

His groan is tortured. “Shortcake!”

“Turnabout!” I call merrily over my shoulder, and skip towards the bathroom. 

***

I’m not entirely sold on the idea of a hike, but Josh points out that the happy hikers on the website seem to be well into their twilight years, which suggests that it isn’t going to be too strenuous, so I gamely pull on some yoga pants and a slouchy sweater and we head out. 

It’s relatively warm out, but the sunlight still has that filtered, wintery quality. It fits with the stark cliffside and grey waves. It’s a chilly kind of beautiful. Josh is right that the trail isn’t too tough, and we walk hand-in-hand. 

We get to the “Scenic Overlook/Halfway Point” quickly enough that even I am surprised. There’s a little promontory with one of those quarter-operated binoculars and a bench. One minute we are reading about how the cliffs are made up of the same mineral as sidewalk chalk and the next--I don’t even know how it happens--we are fully making out. I blame the yoga pants. 

At the very least, they make it easier to straddle Josh on the bench. He keeps his hands clasped loosely around my ankles, which is PG-level touching, but something about the soft pressure, the evidence of his size while I get to be running the show sends flashes of thought that are definitely rated R. 

I hold his face in both my hands and pull back for a minute. His eyes flutter open. He looks a little dazed. He’s so beautiful, it’s infuriating. “Hi,” I whisper.

“Hello little monster.” I have to kiss him some more. I just have to. 

I press closer, tongues and teeth and fingernails scratched into his hair. He pulls me tighter, nipping and growling and playful. I grind down on him and he gasps. His hands move up to my ass and things are just starting to get  _ really  _ interesting when he jolts and pulls away. 

“Josh--” 

“Shit, Shortcake, someone’s coming.” 

And then I hear it too--voices. Not someone, but several someones. I scramble ungracefully off Josh’s lap, but his athletic shorts aren’t heavy enough to hide what we were up to. “Shit. Shit shit,” he mutters, scooping up his baseball cap from where I knocked it off and jamming it onto my head. I hadn’t even begun to worry about the state of my hair. The voices are getting louder. I gesture at his lap helplessly. Josh is marginally cooler under pressure than I am, though, and he hauls us both over to the lookout. By the time a group of hikers, led by Martha, come around the bend and into view, we are gazing serenely out over the sea, just a young couple out for a romantic stroll. 

At least this is what I tell myself. With Josh still pressed up behind me, I am feeling anything but serene. Martha seems convinced, though, because she breaks out into a smile. 

“Hello there, lovebirds!” 

Josh stifles a cough. Whether it’s due to the endearment or nearly getting caught is anybody’s guess. 

“Hi there!” My voice is about two octaves too high. I sound like a cartoon mouse. I try to clear my throat subtly. “Nice day, huh?”

Martha beams and the crowd of elderly folks beams and golly they are a cheerful group. “Ladies and gents, this is our youngest couple this weekend! Please join us!” This to me and Josh. 

“Um,” I say brilliantly. “I think we’re good.” 

Martha bustles over and reaches for my arm. The erection situation is now between Josh and his god. “I insist!” she trills. I let her pull me because I cannot think of a plausible reason not to, probably because all the blood in my body is still in my cheeks. I am sure I am the color of a stop sign. 

Another woman, who is ninety if she is a day, comes forward to latch on to Josh’s arm. “I’m Doris,” she introduces. “It’s been ages since I’ve been escorted by a handsome young man.” 

God help me, but Josh blushes. Doris looks delighted. 

We continue. It’s extremely slow going, but actually rather informative. Martha, as it turns out, is quite the adept amateur horticulturist, and knows about virtually every plant on her vast property. Josh gets the look on his face that he gets when talking about strawberries, and pretty soon he gets drawn into an avid conversation about invasive species with Martha and a fellow named Clive. Josh and I are objects of great fascination and we are declared by one and all to be a “very nice young couple.”

We are invited to lunch by Clive and his wife Elizabeth, and when we beg off there are a number of raised eyebrows and suppressed chuckles and comments about “young people and their energy.”

“Shortcake,” Josh says to me once we are safely ensconced back in our cabin. “I think we were maybe just objectified by someone’s grandparents.”

***

Sunday morning, we make it out to see the sunrise. I am grumbly and resistant to waking up so early, but Josh bundles me into a sweater and gives me a piggyback most of the way (“Who needs the gym when I have you, Shortcake?”) and by the time we get up there I am awake enough to admit that it was worth it. 

We’re back on the same bench where we nearly got caught yesterday (“We returned to the scene of the crime!” I trill, delighted. Josh chuckles into my hair.) but our mood now is languorous and cozy. Sitting still in the early morning chill starts to get the best of us, and we head up to the Main House for breakfast. It’s barely seven in the morning, but the older folks are already clearing out. I reward myself for the early morning with a massive stack of pancakes. Josh must also be feeling enterprising after carrying me, because he eats four whole strips of bacon with his eggs and veggies. With the soft morning sunlight, it’s like a scene out of a romance movie. 

We spend the afternoon strolling in a nearby town. I spend so much time in a used bookstore that Josh starts to twitch with impatience. He buys an intricate ship in a bottle in an antique store. For lunch, I eat the biggest lobster roll I have ever seen. 

It’s so idyllic I could puke. 

Late that night, snuggled up in bed, I latch onto Josh like a little squid. “I wish we could stay like this forever.” 

He smooths my hair back and I peek up at him. “In bed?”

“On vacation.”

“Don’t think you’d get bored, trapped up here with me?”

I plant a lazy kiss into the front of his t-shirt. “Not with you.” He hums happily. “But I guess I do like doing my job...and being able to afford food.” 

“Yeah, we’d be in real trouble if we couldn’t feed you.” His hands in my hair are hypnotic. “But the good news, Luce, is that even we can’t stay on vacation forever, we can keep  _ going  _ on vacations forever, and that seems almost as good.”

“Maybe even better. More special.” I am losing the battle against sleep. The idea of vacations forever with Josh is lovely. The idea of Josh forever is lovely. Being able to think about that without freaking out is worth its weight in gold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok pals, here's the deal: originally, I had ideas for about 20 chapters, but I'm currently writing chapter 19 and still feel like I'm not done with these guys (also...quarantine, distraction, you get it. I've been home for a month now and it is a LOT) so if there's anything that you really feel like you want to see these nerds do, I'm open to suggestions. I can't make any promises (this story is a labor of love etc and inspiration strikes when she strikes) but I also feel like I want to keep writing this for longer so 
> 
> xx you rock at an almost impossible level, keep killing it!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> danny returns!!

Chapter Seventeen

“I feel like this is a bad price for cod.” Josh is peering through the glass of the fish counter like it has wronged him in some way. He likes to approach grocery shopping with a furious intensity that is alternately charming and irritating. “Maybe we should sub in another fish? I guess I’d have to alter the recipe, though…”

The guy working behind the counter looks at me like I’m going to chime in. I shake my head helplessly. I have learned that despite appearances, this is not a conversation that I’m actually involved in. 

“Maybe we should just get it, though. You really like it, it’s easy, healthy…”

I make an encouraging sound. It doesn’t seem to have much effect on his decision-making. “I’m gonna go grab some cereal.” I tell him. He nods absently, so I know he’s not really listening. He’s always trying to convince me that cereal is “not real food” but I like to take a little baggie to work as a snack, so he is losing that battle. 

I am happily considering my sugary options without the added pressure of a glowering fitness nut when someone calls my name. “Oh hey, Lucy!”

It’s Danny. He’s grinning at me with his goofy puppy grin, and the nice reflex in me makes me smile back. His cart is full of bachelor groceries--beer, frozen foods, and boring staples like eggs and milk and coffee--and it reminds me of the million and twentieth reason that I’m lucky to be dating Joshua Templeman. I can cook just fine, but Josh can  _ cook _ . 

“Hey!” I say back. “How are things? How’s freelancing been treating you?”

He gives a jovial shrug. “You know. It’s a little more stressful, not knowing where my next paycheck is coming from, but nice to work for myself. My partner and I have been operating out of a co-working space, which gives some nice structure to our days. How’s everybody at B&G?”

As we make some idle chitchat about mutual acquaintances--the kind of nice small talk that’s always been my speciality--it doesn’t escape me that he hasn’t asked about Josh. Surely enough, this thought seems to summon the man himself. He comes around the corner behind Danny, brandishing a paper packet triumphantly. 

“I just got the cod anyway, it was just a few dollars’ difference, there’s no point worrying--” 

When he sees who I’m talking to, he freezes, going from cheerful to scowly in an instant. “Oh. Fletcher.”

A flicker of something--disappointment? Unease?--passes over Danny’s expression before he covers it up with unconvincing cheeriness. “Oh, Josh, hey man, good to see you. Didn’t realize that you guys were still…” 

Danny seems to realize a second too late that this is a dumb, and frankly deeply uncool thing to say. Josh raises an eyebrow, and while I would normally be annoyed at his macho bullshit, I can hardly blame him this time. Danny isn’t exactly being subtle. 

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Joshua Templeman has got to be the only man alive who can manage to look dangerous wearing a mint green button down and pushing a grocery cart. 

When it hits Danny that this isn’t a rhetorical question, he stumbles a little. “Oh no, man, I didn’t mean that.” He gives an uncomfortable little chuckle. 

“I think you did, actually.” Josh’s voice is very, very even. “I think you meant exactly that. And I get that you and Lucinda are going to work together sometimes, and I have to be fine with it, but the rest of this bullshit--it stops now.” His tone invites no argument. I wish I had popcorn. “Unless she comes and tells you otherwise, you’re going to keep it professional, or else you and I will have a problem. Do we understand each other?”

Danny glances at me and then back to Josh. “Uh yeah. Yeah.” He shuffles nervously. “I guess I’ll see you around… Or maybe not so much,” he mutters with a glance at Josh. 

“Bye Danny,” I say. 

When he’s gone, Josh lets out a heavy breath. “Fuck that guy.” He runs a hand over his face. “I mean, seriously, fuck that guy.  _ Didn’t know we were still together _ . I mean, what the hell is that? Also, if he called me ‘man’ one more time I was going to break his fucking nose. ”

“I feel kinda bad for him. His love life can’t be going well if he’s still thinking about one, very subpar kiss six months ago.” 

I had meant for this to cheer him up, but he regards me seriously. “Actually, that’s the one part I completely understand. You barely even had to look at me before I was hooked.” 

His kiss is a little emotional, like he’s trying to reassure himself of something, but we’re still standing in the cereal aisle, so he has to pull away before I can quite figure out what it is. 

Josh is quiet as we check out and load up the car. I am trying very hard to give him the space to process, and to not chatter over the quiet, when we pull up to a red light and he says, “I hate that Fletcher thinks that we have a… I don’t know, an expiration date.”

He sounds so soft and vulnerable that I know better than to look at him directly. “I love  _ you _ ,” I remind him. “Danny just has a stupid crush.”

“I’m not worried about  _ fucking Fletcher _ ,” he snaps, then sighs. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not mad at you.” 

“I know.”

The light changes and Josh merges us back into traffic. We’re almost home. It’s drizzling a little, the kind of halfhearted spring trickle that can’t decide if it wants to turn into proper rain or not. It makes the car feel secluded, like a little bubble. I feel soft and secure in it, despite Josh’s palpable irritation. 

“I knew it would be like this, everyone looking at us, wondering ‘what’s she doing with that asshole,’ but I’m getting plenty sick of it, seeing that look like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

At this I do glance sharply over at him. He sounds bitter, angry, sad, and I’m reminded of his old insecurity that this is all temporary. “Josh--” I touch his hand. 

“Don’t tell me that that’s not what people think, Lucinda. I have  _ eyes _ . At that fucking Christmas party, Fletcher, even my own goddamned  _ brother _ .” He gives his head a single rough shake. “At the goddamn farmer’s market, Patrick had the freaking  _ audacity  _ to say, “You know, Joshua, she seems really great, glad you’re actually making it work.’” In any other circumstances the nasal, mocking lilt he uses to imitate Patrick would be funny, but right now it breaks my heart a little. “He literally used the word ‘actually’ like it was surprising. Like he couldn’t  _ believe  _ that you hadn’t ditched me already.” He pulls into his parking spot, and gives a bitter laugh as he turns off the car. “I guess there weren’t any other Templeman brothers left.” 

He’s staring straight ahead, hands still clenched tightly on the steering wheel. “Josh,” I say softly. He doesn’t look at me. I get more insistent. “ _ Josh _ .”

He looks at me like it’s hard. It isn’t just ‘everybody else’ that doesn’t think Josh isn’t good enough, it’s  _ Josh. _ His gaze darts around like he doesn’t want me to see how painful this is for him, and while a small part of me is glad that he’s not trying to hide all his feelings behind his patented cool shell, a much, much larger part of me is furious at every person who has ever made him feel anything less than wonderful. I want to grab them each by the shoulders and scream in their faces until they really  _ felt  _ how wrong they were. I am burning up with rage, with protectiveness, and I want to swaddle up my sweet boy and destroy anyone who ever wants to hurt him again. 

I don’t know how to put this into the right words, so I put my hands on his cheeks and press his forehead to mine. His breath tickles my chin, and the gear shift digs into my hip a little, but I ignore it. When his gaze softens a little, I press in harder, like I can transmit directly from my brain to his all the things I feel like  _ I’m here  _ and  _ I adore you  _ and  _ I will destroy your enemies _ . He melts a little. 

“Sorry, Lucinda,” he says. 

“No.” I bristle. How  _ dare  _ he apologize for being sad. How  _ dare he _ . “Screw that.” He seems a little taken aback, but I hold tight on his face. “Screw feeling bad about feeling bad. And, no offense, but fuck Patrick.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Besides, they’re wrong anyway.” I slide my grip around to the back of his head, dig my fingertips into his hair. I’m passively pleased that I’m not strong enough to do anything that would hurt him, because my feverish grip feels out of my control, driven by my desperation to make him understand. “You’re not getting rid of me, Templeman, not even if you try.”

“Lucinda.” He finally reaches for me, sliding his hands up my elbows and into my hair. We’re clutching at each other like we’re drowning. His grasp tugs at my curls and it feels good with just a touch of hurt. It’s the same feeling as a bruising kiss. “You little psycho.”

“Yes,” I agree. 

“We should live together, Shortcake.”

I jolt. I’m pretty sure it yanks a chunk out of my hair. Now it’s Josh’s turn to hold me firm. “Are you serious?”

I feel his smile, but see it reflected in his eyes. “Deadly. I believe traditionally the ask is ‘move in with me,’ but since there is absolutely no way I’m going to move into your apartment for hobbits, making a location-neutral request seems more politic.” 

I’m surprised, but as I poke at the idea, like the way you may prod a sore spot to test it out, I find that I’m not alarmed. I’m actually quite pleased. Still, best be sure. “You’re asking because you’re really asking, right? Not just because we’ve had a weird night? Not to prove anything?”

Josh pulls back so that I can see the full effect of his sardonic eyebrow arch. “I try to make as many of my life decisions as I can over Danny Fletcher, Shortcake.” I roll my eyes and he presses a kiss right outside my left eye, then gives a tiny playful nip. “I am asking because I want you home with me. Every day.” He kisses the hollow of my cheekbone. My growing smile isn’t a choice as much as something that happens to me. “I am sick of having days where I sleep without you.” My jawbone. “And I don’t have to prove  _ anything  _ to  _ anyone _ , Lucinda.” 

One of these days, we are really going to have to stop making out in cars. Today isn’t that day, apparently, because I can neither think nor feel anything except the places where Josh is touching me. The fact that these places are distressingly few somehow makes me burn all the hotter. 

“Say yes, Lucinda.” I am grinning like a fool but Josh is watching me intently and I realize I haven’t technically agreed. 

“Yes, Josh, obviously, yes.”

He presses me to him in a crushing kiss. He is smiling, too, and I am laughing madly, and all the feverish emotional turmoil of a few minutes ago is replaced by a giddy simplicity because this is what happiness feels like. 

I throw my arms around his neck because I’m sure that if I feel more of him I will feel more of this feeling, and our kissing is frantic, like teenagers discovering their hormones for the first time. Or maybe I am just like a teenager, because Josh is far too skilled to suggest such inexperience, using his tongue and teeth to make the kiss tender and hungry all at once. I want to climb inside him. His end-of-day stubble rasps against my cheeks. 

I try to press closer to him but the center console gets in the way. Josh glances down at it like it has murdered his puppy, then back at me. “Do. Not. Move, Shortcake.” His voice has gotten low and growly. I shiver, then nod eagerly. At this point I’m not sure what I  _ wouldn’t  _ do, if he told me to do it in that voice. His eyes flash, and he’s out of the car in an instant, slamming the door behind him. I’ve barely turned in my seat before he’s at my side, opening the door and hoisting me around his waist. He grabs my purse in the same hand that curves under my ass to prop me up, and kicks the car door shut. I cling to him like a feverish little eel. My skirt is just short enough that this is probably indecent, but when Josh places an open mouthed kiss on my neck and starts carrying me towards the building, it becomes very difficult to care about such a thing. I settle for being grateful that the parking garage and elevator are both empty.

I try to remember a time when his strength intimidated me, but can’t manage it. 

Josh settles me on the railing of the elevator and it is both like the first time we kissed and not at all like it, because it is both much shorter and a bit sweeter. He pulls back for an instant, because driving me mad is one of his favorite games, and I gasp. “Don’t stop.” 

“Never.” 

The elevator door dings and fortunately we hear the voices before we step out of the elevator. It’s old Mrs. Rosen, who has an adorable crush on Josh, chatting with one of the young dads whose name I don’t remember. I manage--barely--to stand on my own two feet and we make a break for it, Josh pulling me down the hall by the hand as I throw a wave over my shoulder, keeping my head down so that they can’t see my face, which is certainly bright red from a mix of blush and beard burn. I am giggling so furiously that there’s no mistaking what we’re up to, but we make a dash in the name of plausible deniability. 

I press my face into his back as Josh fumbles with the keys, bite his shoulder blade. By the time we tumble into the apartment, he’s laughing just as much as I am. I’m not sure it’s funny as much as I could laugh at anything right now. Josh is so lit up I could die. A strand of his usually-tidy dark hair has flopped into his eyes and he is smiling his rare brightest smile. For a moment we are just grinning dopily at one another, and I am an idiot in love. Then I need to be touching him again. I press myself against him so suddenly that he stumbles back against the wall with a startled huff. He lets me grope him shamelessly for a minute--tugging his shirttails out of his waistband, teasing the slight trail of hair on his lower stomach, scratching my nails lightly up his chest--before hiking me up once more and heading for the bedroom. 

“Not the time for games, Shortcake,” he huffs in my ear. He is gently breathless. My laugh has a maniacal edge. 

Josh all but tosses me onto the bed, catching me firmly before I can bounce too far. It jolts the breath out of me, cutting off my laughter, and before I can fully catch my breath we are kissing again, his delicious weight pushing me down just enough. I make a play for the buttons on his shirt, but can’t get my hands between us. He pulls my arms above my head and then draws up my sweater, rapidly getting himself undressed while I ease the cuffs off my wrists and kick off my skirt, stockings, and shoes. There’s a clank as his belt buckle hits the floor. 

When we’re both down to underwear I pause because looking at him is a delight, and because I’m lucky enough that I ended up with one of best sets of underwear, with a matching black lace bra. I know for a fact that it is an extremely flattering look. Josh clearly agrees. He’s seen me wear this before, but is looking at me like he hasn’t, or at least like it has the same effect on a repeat performance. Watching him watch me feels heady. 

I give my smile a razor’s edge. “Are you regretting asking me to move in, Joshua? You look just  _ miserable _ .” 

He straddles my hips but stays high up on his knees. He’s still wearing his socks, but I don’t think he notices. He shakes his head. “I’m gonna do this  _ every day _ , Shortcake,” he mutters. It sounds more like a realization than a promise and I am the most powerful woman on the planet. “Every fucking day I’m gonna come home to you.” 

One arm is still thrown lazily over my head and he grasps that hand in one of his, using the clasp as a leverage point to lean over me. I try to hold on to my coy demeanor but the longer he looks at me the harder it becomes. “Yes, Josh, shit, yeah.” We’re barely touching and I can’t help the shover that runs through me. On a dime, our control swaps, and he is the sharp one while I melt. We are perfectly matched competitors and ideal co-conspirators. I love him. I love him. 

“You’re blushing.” Josh runs a finger across my collarbone. I’m sure I  _ am  _ blushing that far down. He’s basically planking over me and doesn’t show a single sign of strain. I make a mental note to ask him about his core exercise regimen. 

“I am, like,  _ extremely  _ into you.” And just like that, the mood turns on a dime again. Josh laughs so hard he has to slump down next to me, and we both turn until we’re face-to-face on our sides. 

“I am very extremely into you, too, Lucinda,” he murmurs sweetly once he has regained his breath. “And I know I said I didn’t have anything to prove, but I will say, this plays quite beautifully into my hand.”

“Your hand?” I murmur as he pulls me in tight again. 

“Sure, in the new game.” He’s talking right up against my mouth now. “The one where I convince you to let me keep you forever, get married, couple of kids, maybe.” I gasp. He kisses me. “I’m winning.”

Nothing--not past relationships, not romance novels--had prepared me for this kind of sex, where we’d be intense one minute, laughing the next, alternately playful and serious, hard and soft, where we’d have to stop a minute to catch our breaths before continuing, coming back to each other without losing our momentum. I wonder if it’s being in love or if it’s just a Josh and me thing. Then I decide not to care. 

By the time we’re lying languid, it’s gotten rather late. I’m slumped against a pile of pillows when my stomach gives a rumble. Josh sits up sharply. I put a hand over my stomach protectively. “It’s really late for dinner,” I say defensively. 

But Josh is already throwing on a shirt and hopping hastily into a pair of pants. “It’s not that, Shortcake,” he says, buttoning poorly. “We left the groceries in the car!”

“Shit,” I hiss. 

Josh is already half out the door when he sticks his head back in, smiling ruefully. He’s in a surprisingly good mood about the whole thing, although I suppose I can guess why. “After all that, we’re gonna end up having to throw out the goddamned fish.” And then that incredible bastard actually  _ winks _ . 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moving day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this chapter is shortish but the next chapter is LONG (too long?) so bear with me.

Chapter Eighteen

Ultimately, we decide to stay in Josh’s apartment. Mine is definitely out--Josh vows that if he hits his head on the slope in my bathroom ceiling one more time that he’s going to take a sledgehammer to the thing--and though we spend a few weekends on the urban apartment search circuit, we realize pretty quickly that Josh’s current lease is a good one, and that finding another deal even close to as good would be somewhere between daunting and impossible. My lease isn’t over for another few months, but the super’s sister is looking for a new place, and so the landlord agrees to let me sign the space over to her early. 

So the last Friday of the month, Josh and I both take off work (“Call me if you need any--” Amanda’s narrowed glance cuts me off. “Right, sorry.”) to sort through my apartment and pack things up in anticipation of the big move over the weekend. 

All week, Josh has been gearing up for today by bustling around his apartment with what appeared at first glance to be purpose, but upon further investigation revealed itself to actually be just driven aimlessness. He punctuated this action by making comments about places where we could downsize our possessions (assuming this was aimed at me, I stuck out my tongue at him), ways to find more storage in the apartment, things that could go into the storage unit in the basement that was part of the lease, and--he stressed this one the most--we could not afford to be sentimental. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve had elaborate fantasies of murdering you,” I commented mildly after the ninth or tenth time he warned against the dangers of sentimentality. 

“That’s the spirit, Shortcake.”

We slept at my place on Thursday night, partially out of practicality for getting an early start on Friday, and because, according to Josh, it was worth it to enjoy knowing he would never have to sleep in such a tiny bed ever again. Josh runs out to the bodega on the corner to buy us breakfast sandwiches, which I  _ will  _ miss more out of nostalgia than actual quality. 

We haven’t even finished our sandwiches when I realize it’s Josh’s sentimentality we had to worry about. 

As I’m wrapping Smurfs in newspaper (“We don’t have to keep them all, Josh.” He looks scandalized. “They’re a  _ collection _ , Shortcake, you don’t break up a  _ collection _ .”), Josh is chuckling over an old high school yearbook I didn’t realize I still had. As I sort my clothes into keep-store-donate piles, he has found an old photo album. 

“Wait, Lucinda, when was this even taken?” he asks. 

I am weighing my options on a red sweater--on one hand, it’s pretty old and looking a little ragged, but on the other, it was a prime thrift store find and the color looks great on me--and glance over at him. “That’s not even me, Joshua, that’s my mom.”

He gives a startled blink. “No way. There’s no way.” 

“Josh.” He is peering at the photo like it contains a great mystery. “Is there any chance you could focus?”

“I am focused, Lucinda. This is time travel. This is a miracle of genetics.”

I chuck the sweater at his head. He catches it one-handed without even looking up, and tosses it aside. It lands on the keep pile, which makes that decision for me. It is the first time he has been helpful in an hour. 

I snatch the photo album out of his hands and he pouts. I growl at him. The only reason I don’t murder him now is that I no longer have a lease. 

Josh eventually pries himself away from Lucy-memory lane, and helps me as I am forcing myself to be ruthless about paring down my library. My bookshelves are the only furniture of mine that are making the move to Josh’s apartment--our apartment now--but after a lot of measuring and calculating, we have determined that one of them won’t fit, so I am being as strict with myself as I can manage. 

Josh starts carrying boxes of books down to his car. When he comes back up, I have slumped despondently on the floor. “This is torture,” I moan. “I hate moving. Why are we doing this?”

Crouching is a good look for Josh, and watching him bend down to scoop up another heavy box, which he holds like it’s nothing, muscles bunching, puts me in a better mood for a second or two. “You’re the one who had the bad sense to fall in love with me. Rouse yourself, Lucinda! You can do it.” 

His cheeriness makes me want to scream. “I  _ despise _ you,” I tell him with feeling. 

I drag myself to my feet resentfully. 

An hour later, Amanda comes by with her cousin, who is moving into her first apartment after college, and who is the new owner of most of my furniture, kitchen equipment, and a handful of redundancies that Josh and I don’t need two of. They’ve rented a truck; Kelly is getting everything nearly for free in exchange for transporting it herself. I would have given it to her outright--I remember those lean days right after graduating--but she got so bashful and insistent that she pay me  _ something  _ that I agreed, just so I didn’t embarrass her. 

(“We are very different people, my cousin and I,” Amanda had commented dryly following this exchange.)

Kelly had blushed furiously at Josh every time he helped lift something--and really, who could blame her?--while Amanda and I pretended to help but really talked books. Once they are loaded up and gone, the rest of the task seems much more manageable, and we make quick, if slightly grumpy work of it. The long day, and in my case, a limited quantity of snacks, is starting to wear on us both. We’ve grown increasingly snippy with each other over the last hour or so, despite the unspoken undercurrent of both trying to be on as good behavior as is possible. 

And then suddenly, somehow we’re done. I throw a backpack over my shoulder and blink against a sudden rush of emotion. “Oh no,” I say out loud. 

Josh is on his way out the door. “Ah, fuck, what now?” He sounds irritated.

“Sentimentalism.” 

His expression softens, and he puts down the boxes he’s holding to come and put his arms around me. He’s handled all of the heavy lifting today, so he’s slightly sweaty, but it isn’t unpleasant. I rub my cheek against his chest and he squeezes tighter for a moment. 

I’m not sorry to be leaving--to be honest, I’ve never held any particular love for this apartment, and have actually had some remarkably shitty times here--but it still feels strange to permanently close the door on the place where I stumbled into adulthood. 

It’s strange to be even a little sad about leaving something behind when what’s ahead is better, but here we are. 

I look up at Josh. “I’m not  _ sad  _ sad,” I inform him. He nods. “Just...sentimental.”

“I know, Shortcake. It’s okay.”

One last look around and I take a steadying breath. “Let’s go home, Templeman.” 

***

By the end of the weekend, most of my boxes are unpacked, I have a stack of books I want to reread, and Josh and I are sprawled out on opposite ends of the couch, legs meeting in the middle, inhaling Chinese takeout. “How are you alive?” I moan at him. “My entire body hurts, and I barely lifted anything.”

He slurps a noodle. Of all the things I have contributed to Josh’s life, his enjoyment of food has to be at the top. “It’s a combination of a long term exercise regimen and extreme motivation to get you moved in here.” He gives me that Joshua Templeman smirk, the one that used to make me want to throttle him but that now makes me want to get him out of his pants. Tragically, I am far too tired to do either. 

I groan. “Please do not be hot right now. I simply cannot take it at the moment.”

His smirk grows sharper, then he seems to blink himself back into awareness. “Lucinda,” he says, horrified, “I think I officially do not have the energy to do any of the things I just thought about.”

I want to laugh, but my abs, such as they are, hurt way too much. 

“They were good, too.” He punctuates this claim with a jab of his chopsticks in my direction. “And sure, we have all the time in the world now, but it’s a depressing indictment on cohabitation so far.” 

“We’re old, now. Domesticated.” 

If I expected Josh to be upset or offended by this, I was sorely mistaken. Rather, the disappointment and mock horror vanishes from his expression and he just looks pleased. Soft and content. Then he shakes his head. 

“What?”

He looks so sweet and fond that it melts me. “Nothing. Just, if you had told me a year ago that I’d have Lucinda Hutton living in my apartment, it would have broken my brain.” 

I do quick math. “Actually, a year ago I think you would have said, ‘Who? The assistant from the emails?’” 

He throws his fortune cookie at me, which I will now absolutely be the one to eat. “You pedantic monster. Fine. If you had told me that  _ eleven months ago _ , honestly, I would have had a stroke. And maybe put off painting my room to spare myself some future mortification.”

I put aside my food and, in a Herculean effort that should honestly earn me some kind of medal, drag myself down the couch so that I’m lying half on top of, half next to Josh. I know he must be sore because he lets out a soft “oof” when I slump onto him. He reaches under my knee, hiking one leg up around his waist. 

“Hi,” I say, blinking up into his face. “We live together.”

He smiles, presses a kiss to my cheekbone. “We do.”

“It’s incredible.”

When Josh laughs, I feel it rumble through me. “I like it so far. I can’t feel much below the waist at the moment, but I like it.”

“And I like the blue. I’m glad you painted it.”

His eyes are dark and I like that blue even better. He touches his nose to mine. He is tender and sweet and all, all mine. I blink. He blinks. I blink. We are silly and dramatic. “Me too, Shortcake.”

We are tired and comfortable enough that we end up spending half the night on the couch. The morning sun is coming in grey through the windows when I stir, my arm completely numb, and we stumble to bed. 

Despite the serious case of side-eye Josh is giving me, I eat my fortune cookie with breakfast. 

“Good things ahead,” the fortune reads. I tape it to the fridge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone who sent ideas: thank you!! I am definitely incorporating some, and writing this has become therapeutic *in these times* 
> 
> to everyone: thank you for reading!!
> 
> to you: you rule and you are doing your best!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is a very long chapter time!! also, this fic is officially at 100 pages in my word doc so *toots own horn*

Chapter Nineteen

A few weeks after the big move, I come home to a potted plant sitting on our doorstep. My first instinct is to look up and down the hallway as if this will conjure some answers. Unsurprisingly, it does not. 

Since I am not a superspy, I decide a plant is probably just a plant. Inside, I deposit the plant on the kitchen table and see an envelope that has been attached to the strong central frond via binder clip. I make a mental note that this is a really smart idea. 

_ Lucy and Josh _ the envelope says in loopy handwriting. Inside is an elegant note card with a T on the front. It is classy and faintly masculine and I have a deep sinking feeling as soon as I see it that the plant was not just a plant. 

_ Dear Josh and Lucy,  _ it says inside in the same round cursive. 

_ Congrats on the move!  _ (Elaine is a narc, I think to myself.)  _ We’re so excited for you! They told us at the nursery that this plant only needs low light and watering about once a week, so hopefully we aren’t giving you too much of an obligation. :)  _

_ We also wanted to invite you both over for dinner for Patrick’s birthday next week! We really hope you can make it (no gifts, don’t bring anything, just come)!! _

_ Love, Mindy  _ (and then, in different handwriting, which belied the conspicuous use of “we”)  _ and Patrick  _

Well, shit. Josh was not going to like this. 

As if summoned by bad news from girlfriends past, Josh takes this moment to come through the front door. For the past few weeks I have been experiencing a truly embarrassing thrill when I am home before him; it isn’t that I had never been alone in the apartment before, of course, but because of legalities with the lease, I had had a key to the apartment but not the building before I moved in, so I’d needed Josh around to buzz me in. Now that I was official, I could come and go entirely as I pleased. 

The building manager, Louise, had actually been really cute about the whole thing. She liked me because in the early COO days she had been a regular recipient of the overflow of my stress-baking and also because I was a delight. When I’d gone down to her office in the basement to sign the lease addition, she’d put my key on a little pink ribbon with the ends all curled up. I’d been flattered that someone outside of my and Josh’s little bubble had felt, even just a ribbon’s worth, that this was important and momentous. 

Today, though, the frisson was eclipsed by this unfolding plant situation. 

“Hi, Shortcake,” Josh calls from the vestibule. I hear the clunk as he drops his gym bag into the bin. His startling efficiency means that he is out of the new-job sprint and has resumed evening gym sessions. I have managed to establish a routine where I’m out of the office by six thirty every day, which I consider an accomplishment. I dream of a day where I, like Josh, manage to bail at five thirty, but it seems like this is perhaps destined to go unfulfilled. He comes into the kitchen. “Oh, hey, nice plant.” He swoops in and kisses my cheek. 

Wordlessly, I hand him the note. I can tell he recognizes the handwriting because he immediately looks at least fifty percent less happy. 

He skims it, then lowers the note. “No.”

This is obviously my exact instinct but we both know it’s not going to happen. “Josh. We obviously have to go. It’s your brother’s birthday.”

“Lucy.” I know he means it when he uses my regular name. “No way. We cannot go to this dinner. It will be the worst.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Absolutely not.”

I give him a sympathetic look. He hangs his head. “Fine.  _ Fine.  _ I will call my stupid brother and his stupid wife and we will go to to this stupid dinner.” 

“Mindy’s actually really nice,” I point out. “Although dumping a plant on our doorstep isn’t the  _ most  _ chill move in the entire world.”

He raises his eyebrows. I guess I hadn’t mentioned that part. I shrug helplessly as if to ask,  _ what are you going to do?  _ That seemed like the best policy we were going to get when it came to dealing with Mindy and Patrick. “Can’t pick your family?” I offer.

Josh’s laugh is dry, but not entirely humorless, which seems likely as good as we’re going to get. “You’re telling me, Shortcake. And I was having such a good day.” He touches a long frond of the plant. “This will look nice on that blue bookshelf, at least.” He glances back at this week’s meal plan on the fridge. “Okay. I’m gonna shower and then I’ll get dinner started.”

“Great, I’m going to throw in some laundry.” 

His smile is sly. “ _ Or,  _ in recognition of how responsible and mature I’m being in agreeing to call my brother, you could  _ also  _ take a shower?”

The laundry, I decide, will wait. 

***

The following Thursday, I am applying a final coat of Flamethrower before heading out the door. “Who has a party on a Thursday?” Josh grouses behind me, where he is finishing doing up his buttons. “The man is in his thirties. He doesn’t need to celebrate on his actual birthday. He can wait for the weekend like a normal person.”

I make an abstract sympathetic noise. This is something that I recognize he needs to get out of his system, and better here while we’re alone than when we are actually in Patrick and Mindy’s apartment. 

Besides, I am a non-zero level of nervous myself. Even though Mindy and I bonded a bit at the farmer’s market, I still don’t feel entirely great about the whole Josh-Mindy-Patrick history. I have decided that this is fine; after all, I don’t make Josh hang out with any of  _ my  _ ex-boyfriends, and it’s not like I foresee him and Danny suddenly becoming all buddy-buddy. Pleasant, friendly coexistence seems like an acceptable goal.

“If he’s on call tonight I am going to have an aneurism, Shortcake, I swear. If he leaves this party and we are still stuck there, I will honestly and legitimately lose my mind.”

I make a disgusted face in the mirror to sympathize with the possibility. 

The one upside to this evening’s program is that Josh looks incredible. Now that we don’t work together and he goes to the gym before coming home in the evenings, I don’t get to see him nearly enough in his business clothes. The few minutes in the morning aren’t enough to satisfy me. We’ve gotten the word from Mindy that tonight is cocktail attire, so I’m wearing a calf-length dress in a deep purple made out of a stretchy material that makes it look far more comfortable than it is. I’ve paired it with a silver pendant that my mom found for me in a local antique store, and a low bun means my hair frames my face a bit while keeping my neckline open. The heels I like to wear with this dress are killer, so I’ve left them off until the last minute. 

Josh is wearing a light grey shirt under a navy jacket, foregoing a tie and leaving the top button of his shirt undone. He looks just  _ slightly  _ loose, like a stern businessman after a long day at the office, and the suggestion makes me want to mess him up more so badly that my fingers positively itch. The slim cut of the suit makes the clinch of his belt at the waist seem almost suggestive. 

Every time I look at him, I feel a fierce stab of possessive pleasure.  _ Mine _ . 

Josh has caught sight of my frank appraisal in the mirror and lets his frustrated venting trail off. His gaze gets darker and darts for a second down to the low shadow between my breasts, accented by the line of my necklace. He clears his throat. 

“I am going to need you to put your Horny Eyes back in your head there, Shortcake.” This is his breezy asshole tone, the one that covers things up. “Unless you want to skip dinner and just stay here?” He takes a half step closer to me. We aren’t quite pressed together, but I can feel his warmth. 

I spin to face him, and push lightly against his chest. “Not a chance. I made so many tries on that wrapping paper.” We have bought Patrick a bottle of what Josh assures me is his favorite scotch. I have a sneaking suspicion that it is actually  _ Josh’s  _ favorite, and that he has purchased it in hopes that Patrick will want to share over dinner. 

“ _ I  _ wrapped that,” he reminds me. 

“Yes, after I made many tries!” 

We decide to take a cab (“We’re both going to want to be able to have drinks at this thing, Lucy.”) and the cabdriver, a middle aged gentleman, says, “Well don’t you look nice, miss!” 

Josh glares at him through the rearview and the cabbie quickly looks back at the road. 

I give him a chiding glance. He slides me over until I’m sitting up against him, nestled under his arm. The early spring night is chilly, but not cold enough for a real coat, and the contrast of Josh’s warmth is delicious. “Understatement, Shortcake,” he mutters in my ear, low enough that the cabbie won’t hear him. “You look gorgeous. I can hardly take it.”

I beam. “I love the suit,” I offer in return, running a hand down one of his lapels. We make a few moments of aggressive eye contact, the dangers of Horny Eyes be damned, until the cabdriver gives a little cough and Josh returns to glaring at him. 

It’s not a long ride to Patrick and Mindy’s building. When we pull up, Josh throws some money at the cabbie and a doorman opens the cab door. He asks who we’re there to see, and while he calls up to the Templeman apartment, I catch Josh rolling his eyes. “Fucking Patrick. So goddamned pretentious.” He huffs a breath. “Okay. Okay, I’m done.”

It’s not clear if he’s reassuring me or himself, but I’ll take it. 

When we get off the elevator on their floor, Mindy is standing half in, half out of the doorway of their apartment. She looks unbearably elegant in a rose sheath dress that is fitted to just below her knee. Her shoes are half the height of mine, and I’m mad with jealousy that she’s still supermodel-tall. Her cheeks are pink, a tiny bit flustered, but it’s still terribly flattering, damn her. 

She smiles and waves when she sees us. 

“Oh hi!” she calls. “Welcome, welcome.” When we reach her, she bends down (practically at the waist, I note bitterly) to brush a friendly kiss over my cheek. “You both look so great! We’re so glad you could make it!” I wonder if Mindy always uses the first person plural. “Come on in!”

The apartment is homier than I expected; given Patrick’s detachment from anything non-medical and Mindy’s attachment to clean lines, I had expected something sleekly modern. Instead, their apartment reminds me a bit of what our place had looked like before my kitsch and clutter infiltrated Josh’s soft efficiency. It occurs to me briefly that it’s possible that Mindy’s dual influence is to blame for the similarities, but I banish that thought. It’s my apartment now and, God help me,  _ my  _ ribbon pillow. 

Besides, like Josh, I am determined to be on my best behavior. 

“Patrick!” Mindy calls over her shoulder as she takes Josh’s coat and the scarf I have been using as a wrap, tucking them into a small closet right inside the door. “Your brother and Lucy are here.”

Patrick emerges from around the corner and I realize that this is a really giant apartment. What kind of doctor even  _ is _ Patrick? 

“Happy birthday!” I say brightly as Patrick gives Josh an affectionate clap on the shoulder. 

He looks like he’s honestly a little puzzled to see me and for a minute I’m not sure if this is just his general energy or if he’s legitimately forgotten who I am. And here I was thinking I had made such an impression at his wedding. 

“Thanks…” he says. 

“Lucy,” I fill in. 

He has the presence to at least look a little bashful. “I know, of course, Lucy. I just didn’t… realize that you were coming tonight.”

“Patrick!” exclaims Mindy. 

Josh puts an arm around my shoulders. “And why the fuck wouldn’t she be, Patrick?” There’s a threatening note to his voice. 

I give him a not-so-subtle kick on the ankle. We literally haven’t even made it out of the doorway yet. Patrick’s glance is darting between his wife and brother like he’s missing something. When I look at Mindy, she is giving him the kind of wide-eyed look that makes me think she’s trying to silently transmit something to him. It’s either a really long message or Patrick isn’t getting it, because a long moment passes. 

“No problem!” I say breezily, just to break the tension. “It’s your birthday, you don’t have to remember anything on your birthday.” I nudge Josh again and give him my own meaningful glance.  _ Behave yourself _ . 

“Right, yeah, happy birthday,” he says in a tone that is mostly not begrudging, handing Patrick our gift. 

For the first time, Patrick looks pleased. “Is this what I think it is?” he asks eagerly. 

Josh similarly lightens. “What else?”

Huh. Apparently he  _ wasn’t  _ lying about Patrick’s favorites. 

The second shoulder clap from Patrick seems a lot more heartfelt than the first. “Let’s break it open, shall we? Min, the scotch glasses are in with the wine glasses, right?”

Mindy confirms the location and then takes my arm as the brothers head for the kitchen. “I’m not a scotch person myself,” she says conspiratorially. “But of course you’re welcome to some, not that their little boys’ club made that obvious. If you’re more like me, I’ve got wine out in the dining room, plus a whole mess of non-alcoholic things.” 

Wine sounds like just the thing, and Mindy has just finished pouring me a glass when the buzzer sounds again. A flash of nervousness crosses Mindy’s face and suddenly I have a very, very bad feeling. 

For a moment, I am frozen with indecision; should I go find Josh? Am I being nuts? 

But then I wait too long, and I hear Elaine’s voice. “Mindy! You look gorgeous, as always!” I have a half second to pray before I hear the low grumble that confirms my worst suspicions.  _ Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuck.  _

Anthony is here and Josh is being ambushed. 

Three things happen at once.

Mindy calls, “Patrick! Your parents are here!” in a tone of voice that indicates that she knows this is not going to go over well. 

Josh enters the dining room (and on an aside: dining room?? What even  _ is  _ this apartment?) and gives me a look so wide-eyed that I’m afraid he is going to sprain something. 

And I feel a white-hot bolt of rage so potent that I might levitate with its force. 

Maybe it was the heady rush of the start of my relationship with Josh. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was that between the merger, the office games, the falling in love, the promotion, the move, I was so busy that anything nonessential got shoved to the back of my brain. But as soon as I hear his voice, I realize I am still  _ fucking pissed  _ at Anthony Templeman.

As the mantle of anger settles over me, I realize I am even more angry than that. I am angry at Elaine for not making her husband pull his head out of his ass and be kind to  _ their son _ . I am angry at Mindy for what is very clearly a setup so that she can have the whole happy family fantasy play out. And I am angry at Patrick for not being more loyal. I am hardly an expert on sibling relationships, but it seems as though Patrick should be supporting Josh in this moment, instead of siding with his parents. 

Josh and I are  _ at least  _ as good at silent communication as Mindy and Patrick--and, I suspect uncharitably, significantly superior--because Josh’s look clearly says  _ Oh fuck, Shortcake, it is my dad and I am having bad feelings about our relationship  _ and I’m fairly certain that he knows that my look says  _ Let him come, Templeman, because if he starts it with you, I will tear him apart so badly that tomorrow morning will find him crying to his priest about all the wrongdoing throughout his life.  _

I am abstractly startled by the ferocity with which I want to defend Josh. In another, deeper sense, it feels right. As Josh and I sink deeper and deeper into this thing, I feel more and more that he is mine to protect. And I will do it to the best of my ability. My little psycho tendencies have been waiting for this moment exactly. 

Resolute, I stand, and move over to Josh, wrapping an arm around his waist, much in the way that he had when the cabbie had hit on me. What had seemed cute and maybe a little silly from him then makes perfect sense to me now. It wasn’t about jealousy, it was about blocking the person you loved most from the people who wouldn’t give them the kindness they deserved. 

Somehow, Josh’s return arm around my shoulder feels tremulous. 

My spine is iron as Anthony and Elaine come into the dining room. 

Elaine, to her credit, looks incredible in a cozy-yet-formal cream sweater and elegantly-tapered navy slacks. Her jewelry game is similarly on point. She at least has the temerity to look a little embarrassed, which shows that she’s in on the deception. Anthony looks similarly classy, and despite my rage, I’m struck anew by the fact that Josh is likely to age well. 

He has a mulish look on his face that I recognize from the wedding. But I recognize it even better now, from seeing something similar on Josh’s face; he is at least a little insecure about this whole thing. 

Anthony may be a dick, but genetics are still wild. 

The room erupts into a flurry of  _ hello _ s and  _ happy birthday _ s and  _ so good to see you _ s, and if my smile is a little terse when I greet Elaine, nobody comments. 

When Anthony gets around to Josh, I feel like I’m holding my breath. “Good to see you, son,” he mumbles, and I mentally sheath my knives. “And Lucy, you too.”

By the time this is all done, Mindy looks faintly like she is about to puke. She ushers us all to the table, and enlists Patrick to help her bring the pot roast in from the oven. There’s an awkward moment mid-delivery during which I am pretty sure I am glaring aggressively, but which ends when Mindy and Patrick lay out the food which is, I have to admit, incredible. 

Mindy has just finished telling an--once again, admittedly charming--story about brunch, and her sister, and a misunderstanding with a waiter when Anthony turns to Josh and says, “So, how’s the new job going?”

His question is completely inflectionless, and for half a second everybody pauses. I squeeze Josh’s hand under the table and he tells a story--I mentally disregard all sensitive details for a COO at a competitor--about a hard-won deal and an incompetent business manager and a twelve-city book tour. Anthony’s face is completely unreadable throughout. 

Mentally, I consider all the ways I will kill him if he fucks this up. Now that Josh and I aren’t enemies, I have plenty of homicidal energy to spare. 

“That sounds...like a lot of hard work.” 

“It is,” I say a bit forcefully. 

Anthony’s eyes dart to me, then he looks back at Josh. “Yes. Sounds like you’d need some talent to manage that one. Good work.” 

“Thanks,” Josh says. 

Anthony nods like he’s trying to put a final point on this.  _ Be kind to younger son: check.  _

Anthony doesn’t necessarily look proud, and Josh’s face falls short of thrilled, but everyone at the table seems to recognize this as a suitable first step. I shelve but do not abandon my homicidal intentions. If Anthony backslides, I’ll be ready. 

Elaine takes up the conversational mantle a little too eagerly, but I have the impression that Josh is relieved to not be the conversational focus. 

The rest of our chatter during dinner never really reaches the realm of comfortable after this, but it does become overall less fraught with explicit tension. There’s a moment during one of Patrick’s interminable medical stories that Anthony gets a little too heated in his praise of the medical profession (“Are you KIDDING me?” I ask loudly as Elaine very clearly kicks him under the table) but he at least looks sorry before we retreat back to subtle hostility. 

It is admittedly a relief when Mindy brings out the cake, even when she cuts it into disappointingly respectable-sized slices. 

I am trying my hardest to make mine last when I notice that Mindy is, once again, making some sort of face at Patrick. If I have learned one thing tonight, it is that Patrick Templeman is not the greatest at social cues. 

Eventually, though, he catches on, clears his throat, and stands up. Wordlessly, Josh steals Patrick’s untouched cake and delivers it to me. He really is the perfect man. “Thanks to everybody for coming tonight,” Patrick says. Mindy nods encouragingly. “Especially to Mom and Dad, since I know it was a bit of a drive.” It’s a bit of a formal speech for a dinner party of five immediate family members (plus one Lucy), but Patrick seems to be feeling himself. 

“Mindy and I,” at this, Mindy rises to her feet and he puts his arm around her. I start to feel twitchy, “are so grateful to have our whole family together tonight to announce that--” They exchange a fond glance and everyone realizes what’s happening a second before they say it; Elaine gasps “--we’re having a baby!” 

Elaine--I do not exaggerate--shrieks and almost knocks over her chair in an effort to get to Patrick and Mindy as quickly as possible. Anthony looks poleaxed but actually a little bit happy. But my attention is focused on Josh. He’s looking at his brother and his wife, where Mindy has her head tucked into Patrick’s shoulder while Elaine rubs up and down her arm like she isn’t sure how to physically transmit all the excitement she’s feeling. And Josh--Josh genuinely looks happy for them. 

I will never admit it, but I feel the tiniest bit relieved to see this. I am not proud of this insecurity, this subtle fear that it’s going to hurt Josh--not that he’s going to leave me, or that he regrets anything, necessarily, just that it’s going to hurt him or have a hold over him to have to be faced with this rejection and betrayal--and it always feels like a cool wave of comfort to be reminded that it isn’t haunting him. 

When Elaine finally steps back (“Elaine, my love,” Anthony says in a measured tone, and it makes me like him 2%, “let the kids breathe.”), Josh and I rise to hug Patrick and Mindy. Josh gives Mindy a friendly kiss on the cheek, and Mindy looks relieved as well. 

This whole thing is such a weird situation, but--miraculously, somehow--we’re making it work. 

For a minute, I feel like a part of this weird-ass family. Josh takes my hand and squeezes it. 

We finish dessert and coffee (and decaf tea for me and Mindy, since she’s pregnant and I like sleep) over talk of due dates (late October), plans to move to the suburbs (Elaine knows a realtor), when Mindy is going to let them know at work (sometime next month, since she isn’t showing yet), and various other baby-related conversations. Elaine cries three times, which sets Mindy off, which sets  _ me  _ off, though I try to hide it.

It’s late by the time we extricate ourselves. In the cab, Josh and I make eye contact and burst out laughing. 

He reaches across the middle seat and puts a hand on my leg, warm through my dress. “Oh my god, Shortcake. How was that both fun and also so much worse than we thought?”

Maybe it’s from all the tears I was trying to hold back during dinner, but I am crying almost instantly. “I’m happy for them and your dad--”

Josh interjects. “Was almost nice to me?”

“Yes! Your mom clearly yelled at him--”

“Patrick, too! He told me in the kitchen that Mindy made him tell my dad not to be a fuckwit--”

“Oh my God, I would pay  _ so much money  _ to hear Mindy say ‘fuckwit’--”

“It was positively scandalous coming from Patrick, Luce--”

We are gasping and the cab driver is looking back at us like we’re crazy. Maybe we are. Josh touches my hair, my ear, my throat. It softens our mood. “I’m glad you were there with me, Shortcake.” 

I roll my eyes at him. “Duh, Templeman. We’re a package deal now.”

He pulls my hand to kiss the back of it. “Damn straight, Shortcake. Did you know that Patrick cornered me outside the bathroom and told me to, and I quote, ‘lock it down’?”

I gasp in delight. “He did not!” 

Josh gives me a solemn nod. “He absolutely did. I mean, given tonight, it might be that he just wants some of the parental spotlight or like residual guilt over, you know--”

“That he stole your last girlfriend, married her, and has now impregnated her?”

“That’s the one yes. But I’m choosing to see it as his recognizing how spectacular you are.”

“Aww.” I bat my eyes at him playfully. 

“Are you people talkin’ about a soap opera or is this some real shit?” the cabbie interjects. “Because, fuck, this is some shit.” 

Josh glares furiously at the cabdriver and I burst out laughing, so we are both happy. 


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is a short one, but I wanted to see what Josh would be like when *he* was sick, but then I wondered what it wasn't a one-to-one tradeoff on how often they got sick (my partner gets sick WAY LESS often than I do, and it makes me FURIOUSLY JEALOUS), and what if they just took care of each other without having to pretend they weren't in love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just an fyi, in case COVID/quarantine stuff has you feeling extra stressed about reading about illness: this chapter *does* have sick people, but it isn't serious (like, even less serious than in the book, I'd say, since I got distracted by the mush) and no graphic descriptions of any symptoms, although characters do regularly mention being/feeling sweaty, and do have fevers. 
> 
> take care of your mental health as well as your physical health in these times, so if that feels like it's too much for you at the moment, there's nothing important plot-wise in this chapter that you can't skip. this fic is about cuteness and cuddly feelings, and I don't want to bring anyone extra stress that they do not need!!

Chapter Twenty 

I take a deep breath and resist the urge to rub my temples. As we ease into the third hour of quarterly all-staff, I am fighting a massive headache and an acute desire to slap Bexley, who has been monologuing pointless for the last ten minutes. Helene is glaring at him. If she had superpowers, we would know it by now, because Fat Little Dick’s head would have exploded. 

“--and really, if we think about it, this is a hallmark of great leadership and the hard work of our lower level managers to keep all the cogs moving.” He seems faintly to be winding down, if the self-congratulatory way he is taking credit for our promising quarterly numbers is any indication. Everyone in the room breathes a sigh of relief. Pamela tosses her notebook onto the conference table with a faint air of defeat. “So let us say--”

“Anyway!” I interject before he can go any further, because the troops look ready to mutiny. My voice sounds weird, but I rally. “Great quarter, great work everybody. Any other questions can be directed to your department heads or to me--”

“Via Amanda!” Amanda interjects. 

“--via Amanda,” I nod in agreement. “And I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Otherwise, grab another slice of cake--happy birthday, again, Suzanne--and have a great weekend.”

Bexley is glaring daggers at me, but everyone else’s evident joy counteracts it. 

I stay standing, a smile pasted on my face until everyone shuffles out, flimsy paper plates of cake in hand, until the only ones left are me, Amanda, and one sad leftover middle piece of cake, ignored because nobody wanted to be the one to take the last piece. I slump back into my rolly chair so hard that I nearly miss. 

“You doing okay?” Amanda asks as I slump my head forward onto my arms. 

I peek up at her. “I feel like I am maybe dying? But I think it was just a response to the meeting.”

Amanda cocks a hip and eyes me critically. “Are you sure? Don’t take this the wrong way but you...do not look your best.”

“You’re fired,” I mumble into my arms. 

She snorts. So much for managerial authority. “Listen, it’s four-thirty on a Friday. Just go home. I’ll field your phone and put off everybody until Monday. You seem like you’re coming down with something.”

With more effort than feels like a good sign, I push myself up. “No, no, I can’t be sick. I was sick last year.” 

“Um.” She swoops in and grabs my notebook, tucking it neatly inside her professional portfolio, the kind that it has literally never occurred to me to purchase. “I really don’t think that’s how it works, but whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“I’m just tired!” I insist, more confidently than I feel. 

Amanda lowers her chin and gives me a skeptical glance. 

“I’m just tired!” 

“You should go home, though.”

“Yeah.” 

I try to limit the frequency with which I leave before Amanda; it was one of the things that made me most furious when I was an assistant. I’ve done it a few times, but usually with some advanced notice, but the way she’s looking at me, a mix of pity and affectionate disdain, makes me think that this might be the time to revisit that policy. 

“Yeah, maybe I should,” I repeat. 

“You definitely should.”

I still haven’t gotten around to buying a new car--the breakdown on the side of the highway had been, as I’d predicted,  _ the  _ breakdown--so Josh and I carpooled to work most days, and then I would catch the bus home. What was the point of living in a city, I would argue to Josh when he suggested that buying a new car should maybe be higher up on my priority list (particularly now that I didn’t have the move to blame for taking up my time), if you weren’t going to take advantage of public transportation? The prospect of taking the bus home with the headache I’ve got, though, makes me wish I had been brave and bought a car, despite the crippling anxiety I felt whenever I considered the prospect of making such a big purchase. 

I take a cab instead and then feel very impressed with this good decision-making, because by the time I get home, I feel properly pukey and like my eyelids weigh about a thousand pounds. By the time Josh gets home, I have wrapped myself in a blanket burrito slumped over sideways on the couch. I had turned on the last hour of  _ Legally Blonde  _ when I got home, but by the time Elle Woods had graduated law school, I was out of energy to reach for the remote and now it’s some distressing sci-fi movie with aliens that I feel too gross to really focus on. 

“Hey, Shortcake,” Josh calls from the doorway when he gets home. I moan piteously. “Shortcake?” I hear him ask in response.

He comes into the living room with a furrowed brow that melts into sympathy. “Oh no, Lucy, are you sick?”

“No!” It sounds whinier than is strictly desirable. “I can’t be sick. It’s your turn. I was sick last time.” My voice is scratchy and miserable and Josh clearly thinks I’m cute based on his stupid expression and I want to throw something at him but my arms are spaghetti. 

He drops his bag on the armchair, and pushes a few strands of hair back from my face. “I’m not sure it works like that.”

“That’s what Amanda said.” I try to bury my face in the couch cushion, but he keeps gentle pressure under my chin so that he can feel my temperature. 

“Smart lady, that Amanda. And you do feel a little warm there, Shortcake.”

“Nooooo,” I say. “I refuse! It’s  _ your turn _ , Joshua.”

He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Poor baby,” he murmurs. “Tell me what feels bad.” I describe my symptoms. “Well, it’s late in the season, but it sounds like you’ve got the flu. Didn’t you get a flu shot?”

“I’m allergic to one of the ingredients.” My head feels like it is stuffed full of cotton and my nose like it is plugged up with cement. “Found out when I was a kid. My arm swelled up like a sausage.”

“Huh.” Josh returns with a glass of water in one hand and a couple of pills in the other. “That’s good to know. Take this.” He helps me up into a sitting position.

“Thanks, Doctor Josh,” I mumble. 

When I try to hand him the glass, he pushes it back towards me. “Try to finish the cup if you can. Also, in general, you shouldn’t take pills from people without knowing what they are. That’s a fever reducer, for reference, might make you drowsy.”

“Okay.” I finish the glass obediently and he helps me lay back down. 

Josh props my ribbon pillow under my knees and tucks the blanket a little more firmly around me. “I’ll make you some soup.” 

“Tea?” I croak hopefully. 

“Tea,” he confirms. 

I fall into a fitful sleep halfway through my mug of tea. When I wake up next, I feel worse and Josh tries to coax me into eating some soup. I resentfully choke down a few mouthfuls. 

“Why are you trying to kill me?” I ask when he tries to get me to eat more. 

“You were a lot nicer to me the last time you were sick, and you hated me then.” 

I feel a rush of regret in that heightened-emotion way that sickness brings. “I’m sorry, Josh.” I snuggle deeper against him. “You’re the best. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

His laugh is teasing. “Oh, now I know you’re really feeling bad. That’s  _ way  _ too nice. Who are you and what have you done to my Shortcake?”

A wave of drowsiness overtakes me, sweeping away my commentary about how I  _ am  _ nice, and don’t call me Shortcake, and also that I love him. I think I manage to mumble it later as he nudges me through brushing my teeth, which I abhor in the moment but know, even through my fevered state, that I will appreciate in the morning, and into bed. The comfort of sitting propped up with him in bed the last time I was sick is compounded by lying down. Even though I must be disgusting and sweaty, Josh curls up behind me in a big spoon, murmuring nice things at me when I wake up periodically. 

When I wake up on Saturday morning--which is really merely minutes away from Saturday afternoon, but it counts--I feel a little bit better, though not entirely great. Doctor Josh informs me that this probably means I don’t have the flu, but also reminds me that he dropped out of medical school. “I don’t care,” I say, snuggling into him like I’m trying to burrow inside him. He lets me wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist and lets me choose all the movies all day. 

“A dick on the face seems really edgy for a teen movie,” Josh comments sometime midafternoon. 

I am curled up in his lap, swaddled in a hundred layers of pajamas, drinking about my fortieth cup of tea. “I  _ cannot  _ believe you’ve never seen this. It’s Shakespeare! It’s Heath Ledger! A classic.”

“I’m enjoying it,” he affirms agreeably, shifting the whole Lucy-and-Josh bundle forward so he can grab his glass of water off the coffee table. “I did not think I would be enjoying it this much when I very charitably said you could pick all the movies all day, but you have good taste, Shortcake.”

I wiggle happily on him, not that he can feel it through all the clothes I have on. “Thank you for babying me and letting me pick all the movies, Joshua.”

He kisses behind my ear. “You’re sick, Lucinda. I’m a man, not a monster, of course you get to pick the movies.”

“Still.” My voice still sounds snotty and thick and sentimental, the third of which is probably not a symptom. “You got me a million cups of tea and are letting me sweat all over you and you made me soup!” I blame illness for making me a little fragile and therefore teary. 

I can tell that he’s trying not to laugh at me. I guess it is a little maudlin. “Poor sick baby Shortcake,” he teases. “I forgot how sweet you get when you’re sick.”

“I’m not sweet,” I grouse. “You’re sweet. You’re a secret marshmallow. You like to say nice things and you pretend you’re mean but you make soup, and that’s nice.” 

Now he is openly laughing at me. “Just for you, Luce.”

I make a childish raspberry sound and turn to watch Heath dancing in the bleachers. 

***

By Sunday, I’m feeling better enough to drag out of the apartment, but in the spirit of not infecting anyone else, Josh and I stick to open-air places. By Sunday night, I am feeling ready enough for solid foods. 

By Monday morning, Josh has a fever of 101. 

Unlike me, who feels the need to turn myself into a cozy little dumpling whenever I feel any level below perfect health, Josh apparently deals with illness by lying flat on his back, arms at his side like a vampire. He pulls the blanket up to his eyeballs, which seems far from ideal in the case of a stuffy nose, but when I ask if he wants me to free up space for him to breathe he just mumbles, “No, please,” in a tiny, sad voice. 

It’s heartbreaking but also oddly adorable. 

I email Amanda, letting her know that I’m taking a sick day but that I’ll be available by email. When I have finished doing that, I return to the bedroom to find Josh trying to leverage himself out of bed, with limited success. 

“Josh. Josh, what are you doing?” He has made it as far as sitting up, but when I place a hand on his shoulder, this seems to be enough to stop him from going any further. It isn’t a good sign. “Josh, you’re sick. You have to get back in bed.”

He blinks up at me. “It’s Monday. I have work.”

“I’ll call in for you,” I soothe, urging him to lay back down. “It’s okay. You can’t go in. You might get someone else sick.” This line of logic seems to work, because he gives me a dazed nod and settles back onto the bed with wheeze. “Point your face over here,” I say, brandishing his phone. 

I send a quick email to  _ his  _ assistant. Josh is already asleep by the time I’m done, which is the strongest sign that he really doesn’t feel well that I could imagine. Usually when he is awake, he is  _ awake _ . I tuck the quilt a little more firmly around him, and he gives a little grateful mumble. 

Not to focus too much on the silver lining, but this is a real opportunity for me. Of course, I feel bad that Josh is sick, and also a little bit guilty that I clearly got him sick, but I am not ignoring that this is a chance to show off one of my greatest talents: making chicken soup. 

Not to overstate things, but I make the best chicken soup in the world. 

Josh is overall a better cook than I am, even though I am a better baker. I make up for this disparity by regularly producing homemade bread and washing more of the dishes, but today I am going to knock his exhausted, virus-ridden socks off. 

This was something my mom and I used to do when I wasn’t feeling well as a kid, make soup with homemade stock--fortunately I have this ahead of time, frozen, because it takes forever--a whole mess of vegetables from our most recent farmer’s market foray, and dumplings. It simmers with spices and aromatics and little meatballs that I’ll make later in the process. It’s labor intensive but also repetitive and soothing, and reminds me of sitting in one of the massive kitchen chairs in my parents’ house, wrapped in a quilt while my mom cooked and chattered--or, as I got older, with the positions reversed when it was one of my parents not feeling well. It simmers for hours and when it’s done it is the most delicious soup in the world. 

In between steps, I check on Josh, who has moved so little that on the second round into the bedroom I check his breathing. The third time, I urge him to drink some tea and a fever reducer. When I ask if he wants to move into the living room so he can watch a movie or something, he mumbles, “No thank you, maybe on Thursday,” which is nonsensical but reassuring, since I’m sure I couldn’t move him on my own. 

When his temperature gets past 100, I google “how sick is too sick to be at home” and, not reassured by the lack of consensus in my search results, text Patrick. “DO NOT TELL YOUR MOTHER,” I write at the end of the text in all caps. Patrick responds quickly, reassuring me that I am doing the right things and that he won’t call Elaine, but tells me to keep him updated, especially if things get worse. 

For an hour or so in the late afternoon, I start to get stressed and restless--I don’t want to turn on the TV, in case it wakes Josh up, and I’m too jittery to sit down with a book--so I answer some emails and then bustle around, tidying fussily. Fortunately, by five, Josh’s temperature starts to go down, and by six thirty he drags himself out of the bedroom to flop crankily on the couch. I take his general grumpiness as a sign that he’s feeling better. 

By seven thirty, I have convinced him to eat some soup, which he begrudgingly admits is good, and we curl up and find  _ Independence Day  _ on a cable channel. We start the movie halfway through, and Josh falls asleep with his head in my lap before we finish. I can’t reach the thermometer from where I’m sitting, but his forehead feels cooler. 

He stirs when I’m feeling his head, and distractedly reaches up, grabs my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “Hand is cold. That’s nice.” He sounds like he’s still half-asleep, and apart from some leftover questionable coloring--pale face and too-bright cheeks--he looks adorable. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” I say as the end credits run. Now that he’s seeming a little happier and healthier, I push through a chapter of the newest B&G title that has been getting some buzz. When it’s time for me to head to bed, Josh makes an annoyed grunt and refuses to come with me. After hopelessly trying to get him to help me prop him up for a few minutes, I give up--he is literally twice my size and made of solid muscle and not in enough danger to give me some sort of adrenaline-fueled superstrength--and take myself to bed. 

I change the sweat-soaked sheets for our third time this weekend, and am just starting to head to sleep when Josh appears without turning on a light. “You left me,” he accuses, throwing himself across his side of the bed. “No man left behind, Shortcake.” 

I laugh, slipping under the quilt next to him. “I tried. You’re a giant.” 

He’s already half asleep again. “No, short,” he mumbles, and I’m not sure if he means me or him or is responding to something else entirely off in dreamland. He’s not so asleep, though, that he doesn’t wrap an arm around me and pull me in close. 

***

When my alarm goes off in the morning, Josh’s side of the bed is empty. I find him in the kitchen, already showered and dressed. “What the hell?” I ask blearily. 

He hands me a cup of tea that’s already perfectly steeped, kisses me on the temple. “I was asleep all day yesterday, so I woke up early.” He sounds cheerful, too. 

“You were sick!”

He shrugs. “I feel better now. Also, I’m taking some of this soup for lunch--I packed a container for you as well--because it’s incredible. Don’t think I said that last night.” 

He bustles off into the bedroom with disturbing energy. While I drink my tea, I grumble about the unfairness of quick recovery, morning people, and how I have managed to end up dating one while being the exact opposite. I’m still not all the way awake as I’m climbing into the shower; Josh stops me with a hand on my wrist, and gives me a deep kiss. It is not a usual morning kiss. I suddenly revise my position on morning people if this is my reward. “Thank you for taking care of me, Shortcake,” he whispers against my mouth. I nod back, because I’m too breathless for anything else. 


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's Josh's birthday!

Chapter Twenty-One

“What do you want to do for your birthday?” I ask Josh one Sunday morning in late March. “Also, do you want me to read you your horoscope?”

Josh laughs at me for still getting a hard copy of the newspaper every week, but I like to do the crossword in its physical form. It’s become a bit of a Sunday ritual, where I read him snippets while he makes breakfast, and then I pretend to listen to his thoughts on the sports or business sections while I do some dishes and (most weeks) bake something. 

This morning, he’s about to hand me a cup of tea where I’m sitting in my coziest clothes on the couch, but pulls it back. “Do not read me my horoscope, Shortcake.” He says the word “horoscope” like it tastes bad. I feel neutral about horoscopes, generally speaking, but I once read Josh his, and he was so horrified that I haven’t been able to resist peppering references to how he is a “classic Taurus” into our conversations. “I will take back this tea if you read me that.”

I am not prepared to play this kind of hardball, so I drop the newspaper and lunge for the tea. He lets me catch him, careful to avoid spilling. 

I take a deep, restorative sip as he heads back into the kitchen. “Really, though, do you have anything in particular you like to do,” I call, “or do you want me to plan something?”

Josh leans out of the kitchen, spatula in hand, to eye me skeptically. “Shortcake, I am in my thirties. Let’s just grab dinner.”

This is such an appalling statement that it immobilizes me for a moment. Classic friggin’ Taurus. “Joshua, we are  _ absolutely  _ doing more than just--” I shudder “-- _ grabbing dinner  _ for your birthday.” 

“Luce, I’m turning thirty-one, it’s not a big--”

I talk over him. “I’m not saying a  _ party _ , like I have  _ met  _ you, but isn’t there some weird thing you’ve always wanted to do?” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t mean a sex thing!” I consider. “Well, I didn’t necessarily mean a sex thing. But more, like, is there some sort of boring museum that nobody will go to with you? Do you want to hit golf balls at a giant net? This is your opportunity to make me accompany you to whatever terrible activity you love! I’ll even enjoy it in the spirit of birthdays!” I give him my best smile and nod encouragingly. 

He pauses in contemplation.

“You’re still thinking about the sex thing, aren’t you?”

“Obviously. But I do have an idea. But you will hate it so much.”

“Josh, it’s going to be your birthday, we can do--oh no, oh my God, you want to go camping.”

“I...do want to go camping.”

The sound that escapes me is something I haven’t heard before. It’s like the death knell of a sad pigeon. “That’s great, Josh, we can totally do that,” I squeak. 

He laughs and heads back into the kitchen. I take a few restorative breaths and a long sip of tea and then try again. “Seriously, Josh, we can go camping.”

When he reappears, it’s with two plates of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and mushrooms in hand. He places them down on the coffee table and then cuddles in close to me on the couch. “You don’t have to do that.”

And I know that I am a very good girlfriend because I say, in a somewhat convincing voice, “No, I want to. It’s your birthday!”

He leans over and kisses me warmly. It will be worth it. I’m sure that it will be worth it. I love Josh and so I will suck it up and go camping--I mean, it will be worth it. “I don’t deserve you, Shortcake.” And for a moment, seeing his dumb, sweet excitement, it is worth it. 

***

I offer to plan the trip, but Josh being Josh, he says that half the fun is in the planning (I have never related to anything less in my life) and spends the next week happily making spreadsheets of potential hiking locations and dragging a shocking amount of camping equipment out of the storage space that’s included in our rent. 

“Why would one person own two tents?” I ask when I accompany him down to the building’s basement. A few of my boxes made it down here during the move, but that day was so hectic that I hadn’t paid much attention. “Is your whole minimalist persona a lie? Are you a secret outdoorsman hoarder?” 

“One’s for backpacking,” he says, as if this explains anything. “Obviously we won’t take that one.”

“Obviously.” 

I am wearing a thrift store skirt that has a built-in crinoline while we’re having this conversation and I start to suspect that I’m getting in a little over my head. Meanwhile, Josh is rummaging through a box that includes what I think is a propane tank and some kind of brick that (based on movies I’ve seen) looks like, but I assume isn't, C4.

“So you’re, like, a really experienced camper?” 

Josh puts down the mushy brick and...a garlic press? That can’t be right--and stands to hug me. “Don’t sound so nervous, Shortcake. We’re going to do camping for babies for this trip.” The phrase  _ this trip  _ alarms me a bit, but I shove it down. “And I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

“It’s your birthday,” I mumble into his chest. 

He chuckles. “Try not to sound so excited.”

“Yay camping!” I take the correct tent and beat a hasty retreat. It’s best to save up my reserves of cheer for the camping itself. 

***

Camping and cake seems like a precarious combination, so Friday night I make cupcakes--carrot cake, Josh’s favorite, which is so on-brand that it hurts me--and frosting and pack them up in the tupperware that I bought to replace the one I puked in last year. I never could look at that one the same way again, and so took the opportunity to upgrade to a nicer glass one. I pack them up and stash them in the bottom of the cooler while Josh is at the gym. Every birthday should contain a little surprise. Josh is not, broadly speaking, a surprise person, so something small and low-stakes like homemade cupcakes is just the thing. 

Due to a snafu with the icing--making icing has always been my weak point--I have barely finished cleaning up the evidence when Josh comes home with takeout in tow. “Hey, Shortcake.” He gives me a short kiss and I hope I don’t taste like icing, which I have obviously been sampling. “I didn’t want to buy more groceries before we went out of town, so I got Thai food.”

“From the place by your gym?”

“Yeah. I got you that curry.”

“Yessssss.” I give a happy little hiss. My smile freezes when I see that I have left the depressed spatula I use to frost on the counter. It’s clean, but it doesn’t normally live on the counter unless I’m baking, and our history has proven that he’s far too observant for his own good. I am not proud, but my panic-brain’s response to this is to draw his eye by doing a little dance. 

I choose not to investigate what it says about me that Josh doesn’t find this even remotely suspicious. Instead he just laughs. “Okay, weirdo. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be quick, but you can start eating before I get out if you’re starving.”

“Cool,” I say. “Sounds great!” Apparently I am a good liar only when it comes to lying to myself. 

Josh gives me one last weird look before heading in to shower. I wait until I hear the shower turn on before I lunge for the spatula and shove it in the drawer where I keep all my baking stuff. 

Thank  _ God  _ Josh isn’t the kind of person who would enjoy a large surprise party, because I am apparently  _ garbage  _ at keeping secrets. Even good ones. Even good ones of the smallest possible magnitude. 

While Josh showers, I sip a glass of wine, in hopes that it will help me act like less of a total nutball. I imagine what it must feel like to be a cool person. 

The deliciousness of the curry distracts me enough that I am able to act like a normal person for the rest of the evening. We head to bed embarrassingly early for a Friday night (“We are  _ old. _ ” “I’m past thirty, Shortcake, what’s your excuse?”) so we can be up at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning. 

While Josh packs the car, cheerfully muttering to himself about the mysterious provenance of each weird camping item, I liberally apply my best and fanciest--for dire circumstances only--leave-in hair oil and twist my curls into two tight braids. It isn’t the world’s most flattering look, but I fear the possibilities of what nature might do if it gets into my tempramental hair. It’s a hairstyle I haven’t used since I was a child, and when I’m done, I am reminded why. 

I emerge from the bathroom, Josh is just coming back in from loading up the car, cheeks pink with cold. The corner of his mouth twitches a little when he sees my hair, but he is well-versed enough in my vanities not to say anything. Instead, he tosses me a knit cap.

I look down at it sadly, and then back up at him. “In for a penny, in for a pound?” he asks. 

“I really must love you a lot,” I sigh.

We load up what remains of our supplies--I cannily make sure that I’m in charge of packing the food, to keep up my cupcake deception--and pile ourselves into Josh's car. He is buzzing with excitement and I’m barely awake, so he drives the two-ish hours to the campground. 

The scenery outside the city is lovely even if it is still a bit barren. Spring comes slowly upstate, but the residual iciness is beautiful as nature works to break back through. If I could figure out how to guarantee that I wouldn’t freeze and no spiders would get into my hair, I might be able to get into this whole camping thing based on the visuals alone. 

The campsite itself isn’t too remote, thank god. The brusque man in the front cabin takes our payment and sells us a few cords of firewood--”It’s always more expensive at the campsite itself, but well worth the hassle of not trying to find it in the city in March,” Josh confides to me as he loads it up--and gives us directions to our plot, number thirteen. “Pretty close to the bathroom, if you like that,” he adds. 

“I’m not sure ‘liking’ is the question when it comes to bathrooms,” I comment dryly to Josh once we’re back in the car. “That feels more like a necessity issue, really.”

“Stop,” he admonishes me. “I can’t drive and laugh at the same time.”

Once we arrive at our little plot, Josh sets up with a practiced efficiency while I putter around, trying to be helpful. Josh reminds me to leave the food in the car (“In case of bears,” he says. “ _ Bears?  _ Joshua, I did not sign up for  _ bears! _ ” but he assures me it will be fine as long as they can’t smell any food), so I haul some of the firewood over to the fire pit. By the time I’ve done that, laboriously and gracelessly, Josh has finished setting up the tent, so I duck inside, wrinkling my nose a bit against the slight plasticky smell, and unroll our sleeping bags, tucking the little travel-sized pillows inside. 

When we’re done, Josh looks over at our work with an abstract pride that is somehow distinctly masculine. “ _ Boys, _ ” I mutter, rolling my eyes. He grins. 

We spend the day puttering around, taking a small hike (“More like a long-ish walk, Shortcake.” “Do shut up, Templeman.”), strolling into a nearby town for lunch. Josh is patient while I coo over various items at a kitschy tourist shop. I buy a small frame with pressed wildflowers as a memento. 

The days are still short, this early in the spring, so we return early to the campsite. Josh teaches me the best way to build a fire, and I squeak in delight when it actually works. 

“You know, for a farm girl you really are not great in nature,” Josh comments as he cooks dinner--sausages and zucchini--over the small propane stove. 

“It’s  _ because  _ I am a farm girl,” I counter. “When you spend all your days out in fields, you aren’t exactly itching to spend your nights  _ more  _ in fields. That’s city-slicker shit.” 

Josh loses his mind laughing when I say “city-slicker” until he’s gasping for breath and nearly knocks our sausages into the dirt. 

“It’s not  _ that  _ funny,” I whine from my throne of a foldout chair. 

“It really is, though,” he counters, working to regain his breath. “You are the most indoor girl I have ever met. I mean, the conditioner alone sells it.”

“It isn’t nice to tease me about my weak spots.” I tug on the end of one of my stupid schoolgirl pigtails. “Besides, not everyone can just pull on a t-shirt and sweatpants and look like they’re ready for their cover shoot. Some of us have to put in an  _ effort _ ,” I sniff. 

This sends him into fresh peals of laughter. He takes the food off the little stove and turns off the heat, then comes over to kiss my cheek. He smells of fresh breeze and woodsmoke and good food and home. 

“I think you always look beautiful, my Shortcake.”

“Don’t pander to me, flatterer.” I shove halfheartedly at his shoulder. He kisses me for real in response. 

The dinner is smoky and heavy and delicious and it feels like just the thing to be eating on this cold night out in the woods. I hunch deeper into my fleece and lick the grease off my fingers. 

Once the sun is fully down, the chill increases rapidly, and we press closer to the fire, which has heated up considerably, and to each other. I feel giddy, like a teenager, like I’m using the cold as an  _ excuse  _ to cuddle up against Josh, as if I needed one. It feels delicious and illicit, like we’re getting away with something. 

As the fire starts to burn down, Josh shifts underneath me. “Ready to turn in?” 

I know it’s actually not that late, but something about being out here, reliant on fire for light, makes it feel somehow both virtuous and indulgent to retire early. But--”Wait!” I say, jumping up. 

Josh blinks at me, a little sleepy, as I dig around in the back of the car. I produce my tupperware proudly, delighted by my own subterfuge. I have even remembered a birthday candle. 

I produce the final effect with a flourish. “Happy birthday, Josh,” I say. 

He stares at the cupcake like it confuses him. “You made me cake?” he says. 

“Um, duh. It’s your birthday!”

He smiles a bashful sort of smile and I swell up with adoring him. I really won with Joshua Templeman. Women at work were so often worn down by unappreciative boyfriends, husbands, children, but Josh seems so freshly delighted with every small act of kindness that it makes me want to spoil him rotten. 

“Carrot? That’s my favorite.” He blows out the candle and bites into the cupcake with gusto. 

I roll my eyes at him. “Yeah, I know. Normal people don’t like vegetables in their cake, I didn’t just make that by accident.”

His smile is boyish. He has a smudge of icing on his lip. “This is delicious, Shortcake. Thank you.”

I ignore his thanks. It’s his  _ birthday _ . He should  _ expect  _ cake. Instead, I reach for a cupcake of my own, and delicately pull off the wrapper. “Did you make a wish?” I ask.

Josh looks at me in a way that makes me shiver with its softness. “Nah,” he says. “Don’t need to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually love carrot cake, please disregard this chapter's anti-carrot-cake messaging, it does not reflect the views of the author


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's almost mother's day, so it seemed like a good time for some annie content

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You know,” my mom says one night over Skype. “I’m thinking I might come visit before picking season gets started in earnest. Your dad probably won’t be able to make it at the same time--you know how we hate to both leave the farm at once--but I’m feeling a little Lucy time.”

I was stretched out on the couch, crunching merrily on a big bowl of popcorn. I had a cheap old air popper that was the best thing I had bought during college; for dirt cheap I could make huge quantities of popcorn  _ and  _ avoid the stale oily smell that microwave popcorn so often left behind. I had seasoned this bowl with a hearty helping of cracked pepper, which made me sneeze every so often. I wasn’t facing my webcam with the  _ most  _ flattering angle, but my mom had known me through my preteen years, which meant she had seen far worse. 

“Mm yes!” I mumble through the too-large mouthful I have crammed into my face. My mom laughs while I chomp at it frantically. Eventually, I manage. “When were you thinking?”

She shrugs. “Your father recently got this app that tells him when flights are cheap, and he checks it about forty times a day.” She chuckles fondly. “I could be in Canberra tomorrow for $570, if you were wondering.”

“Do you want to go to Canberra?”

“Not particularly, but it’s nice to know.”

“Important to keep track of your Australian travel options.”

“Your father seems to think so. It mainly makes me think of my travel options to come see you, but the point seems to be that you have to basically have to have a go bag ready if you want to get a good deal.”

I see what she’s getting at. “I’ll double check with Josh, but I’m confident in saying that you can turn up on our doorstep any time.”

Due to my ongoing car-lessness and similarly ongoing refusal to go buy a new car, Josh has undertaken a project to teach me how to make adult purchases, “now that you’re actually getting paid commensurate with your labor and abilities.” (Josh has a lot of cranky thoughts about how long Helene kept me on her desk.) He has taken to pontificating on his theory that I can unlearn the broke college student habits that I have feverishly clung to even as I have started to earn adult money. To this end, we have been spending the better part of the last two weeks refurnishing the spare room to make it a workable guest room-slash-office instead of what we are using it for now, which is nothing. He wouldn’t even let us  _ look  _ at Ikea. 

Even splitting costs, every purchase we made killed me a little, but after the purchase of a bed, desk, nightstands, dresser, and a  _ full set of bed linens  _ (“What are you, a king?” I had asked incredulously as Josh had looked at honest-to-God pillow shams. “You need fancy pillows to hide your regular pillows?” He had looked at me like he didn’t even know who I was anymore, then left to get himself a soothing cup of tea. It had been a trying exercise for us all) the pain of each buy was starting to hurt a little less.

The upside was that the room really was starting to look quite nice and my mom would have somewhere to stay when she visited. Strawberry farming was more a labor of love than one of immense profitability, and city hotels were expensive. My suffering would be worth it. 

About ten days later, I got a text message from my dad in the middle of the day. There was a screenshot of a flight scheduled for the next night followed by the text, “???? I know its the week but flights are cheaper and I’m very self-sufficient. I’ll do tourist stuff.” Then, coming in as I read the first message, “ps this is your mom, but dad’s phone has the flight app! He learned how to screenshot!!!” and then several smiley face emojis.

I sent her back a series of thumbs up emojis, which I, predictably, had to clarify that I meant she should book the flight. 

And so Josh and I find ourselves battling rush hour traffic to pick up my mom the next night. 

“I can take a cab! Or, oooh, the subway like a real city-dweller!” my mom had exclaimed when, during our Skype call with her to discuss logistics, Josh had mentioned we would pick her up. 

Josh had shaken his head solemnly. “Annie, all due respect, but I could not live with myself if we did not come get you at the airport. And god help me if my mother ever found out.”

I swear my mom had blushed. 

“Are you regretting offering to pick up my mom?” I ask as Josh swears at the third driver in under five minutes. 

“Absolutely not--oh, Christ, no, no, please, don’t use your blinkers. Why would you?” He glares furiously at the driver next to us, but the power of his Serial Killer Eyes are not as effective at a distance. “No, obviously we will pick your mother up at the airport every time she visits for the rest of our lives.” He has taken to making these offhand kind of “forever” comments recently, and it makes a warm, anxious pleasure bloom in my guts. “What I am regretting is moving to this city, learning how to drive, and possibly every being born, all of which have led to me being stuck in this  _ cabal of idiots _ \--YES YOU!” he shouts at a driver who is passing us on the right. He lets out a terse breath. “But maybe you drive next time.”

“I accept your terms.” In deference to his obvious distress, I do not mention that I offered to drive  _ this  _ time. 

I am faintly worried that Josh is going to have a stroke, or at least that the stress is going to take years off his life, but we make it to the airport in pretty good time. As we approach arrivals, I see my mom, her hair a mad cloud trying to escape its bun. The moment she sees us, she explodes into waves, bouncing up on her toes excitedly. I am so happy to see her that I could cry. 

The instant that Josh slides into a spot against the curb, weaving between the smiling family and the guy who is smoking out his car window, I leap out of the car and throw my arms around my mom. “Oh, Lucy-bear,” she says into my hair. “Hi there, baby.” Under the airplane smell, she smells like home. 

“Hi, Mama,” I say, pulling back. “How was the flight?”

“Oh, easy, easy--you wait just one minute there, Josh,” she says as he tries to grab her suitcase. “Hugs first.”

Seeing my diminutive mother pop up on her toes to throw her arms around the neck of my giant surprised boyfriend is an image that will remain funny for weeks. Josh looks bashful. “Hi, Annie,” he says, embracing her back with just a touch of awkwardness. “So glad you could come visit.”

“Thank you for putting me up! I know having your girlfriend’s mom come to stay isn’t the most normal thing in the world…”

He brushes off her concerns. “No, no, we’re so glad you’re staying with us. We just redecorated the guest room, so it’s great to have it get some use.” He swoops up my mom’s suitcase with palpable relief that he has discharged his male duty of carrying heavy objects. I use his distraction with loading it into the trunk to swipe the keys out of his hand, because it really just seems like it’s for the best that I drive back home. 

The traffic back isn’t nearly as bad, but I still very nearly swear in front of my mother several times. I may be twenty-seven years old, but there is no age at which you are old enough to yell, “use your goddamned blinker, bat turd!” in front of your own mom. 

It is not a stretch to say that my and Josh’s place is far, far,  _ far  _ nicer than the apartment where I used to live, which was far nicer by the time I left than it was the last time my mom visited me there. To cut down on travel costs plus to maximize the joy I get at being home for a little while, I tend to visit my parents far more than they come to visit me; my mom hadn’t been to the city since my first year after college, when I had first been hired at Gamin. I think I had owned one singular frying pan and only two forks. In my new building, there is laundry in-unit, hardwood floors, and the elevator always works. 

So things are generally far more impressive now. 

My mom coos accordingly over everything from the welcome mat to the weird medical models to the flowers that Josh had bought for her on his way home from work today. (“Oh, how sweet!” I had said, reaching for them. Josh had snatched them back. “They’re not for you, Shortcake! They’re obviously for your mom.” This, of course, had made me swoon even more.) 

“I  _ love  _ what you’ve done with this spare room!” she exclaims when we show it to her. “You’ve decorated so well.” Then she cuts a conspiratorial look over at Josh. “Was it like pulling teeth to get Lucy to part with the money?”

He mock-rolls his eyes. “You have no idea, Annie.”

My mom chuckles. “She bought too many clothes from goodwill in high school and never learned what real things cost.” 

Now, Josh is openly laughing. Wow, what a fun dynamic for me. I pretend to be annoyed at their teasing, but I’m pleased. Josh is important to me and my family is important to me, and I’m not sure what I would do if they didn’t get along. 

And that’s not even accounting for the weird tension thing we have going on with the Templemans. Both of us need some normal, supportive parental figures in our lives, and from the way that my mom and Josh spiritedly debate the merits of buying pre-ground spices against grinding your own, it seems that my mom is happy to provide that energy. 

They make a killer cooking team on top of that, I realize, as I eat the seafood pilaf they have concocted. 

It is Wednesday night when my mom arrives; Josh and I still both have to work Thursday and Friday. When we apologize, my mom flaps an unconcerned hand. “Do you know when I last had a vacation, my loves? I am going to take a book to a cafe, buy myself lunch, and then sit there and read all the way through happy hour. I’ve been dreaming about it all week. Go, work! We’ll meet for dinner.” 

So we do, though we both take special care to make sure we’re out of the office at a decent hour. Josh, the planner, makes a reservation for Friday night (“You are  _ too sweet _ ,” my mom tells us, graciously pretending that I contributed to the level of organization. “I can’t tell you the last time I had the chance to dress up!”), and I’m in a cab a few minutes away when my phone buzzes. 

**Joshua Templeman:** I had to yell at an idiot who kept trying to talk to me even though I told him VERY CLEARLY that I had a dinner

**Joshua Templeman:** I’m going to be five minutes late

**Joshua Templeman:** tell your mom I’m sorry but also try to convey that it’s not my fault

**Joshua Templeman:** without making it look like an excuse, if you can manage that

**Joshua Templeman:** I swear I am not a bad manager, there are just four people who work here that are so incompetent it boggles the mind

The quantity of texts underscores his distress over the whole thing. I am tempted to text back, “it cool, my man,” but something tells me that he’s not in the right mood for this kind of tomfoolery. So, instead, I assure him that I know he is a good manager, that my mom will not be mad, that she understands work emergencies and that things just happen more generally, and that I will see him shortly. 

When I get to the restaurant, my mom is sitting at the bar, nursing a large glass of red wine, ignoring the paperback murder mystery she snagged off one of my shelves, and chattering merrily with another middle-aged woman. 

Bright as she already looks, she perks up even further when she sees me. “Hey there, Lucy-bear!” I suspect this may be my mom’s second glass of wine. “This is my new friend Molly! She’s having a girls’ weekend with high school friends she’s known for thirty years!” 

Molly smiles. “The rest of the girls don’t get here for another few hours. I thought I was going to be stuck spending my afternoon all alone, but your mom and I have been bonding.”

“We’re both empty nesters,” my mom says. 

“Both married for  _ ages _ .”

“Both country girls.”

“Both still love those dummies we married,” Molly adds with a fond sigh. “Anyway,” she shakes herself out of it, “your mom has told me so much about you and--” Molly gives a playful wink “--your charming beau.”

I am officially obsessed with both of them. 

Molly urges me to take a seat at the bar and then offers a glass of wine. “My treat. No--” she adds, as I protest. “My treat. My son lives in  _ Montana  _ of all places, so far from me and his father, so I need an outlet for my maternal energy. Please, it would be a favor.” 

I explain Josh’s delay and my mom brushes it off. “Mol--” It’s cute that they’ve already reached a nickname stage. There’s something utterly delightful about the instant friendship of two moms out on the town and a glass of wine in. “--he’s really such a sweetheart. Did you know he got flowers to welcome me to town?” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “They had  _ quite  _ the torrid time of it getting together, but he is a secret sweetheart.” 

I blush as they giggle. I take a large swig of my wine. 

I have just edged in on feeling the effects of wine on an empty stomach--a few more gulps and I’ll be giggling with my mom and Molly, who are lovely--when Josh arrives. I am just tipsy enough that my breath catches a little at the handsome figure he cuts. He’s wearing the robin’s egg blue shirt. I love him so much that I don’t even know what to do with it. 

“Hi there,” he says as I lean into him. “What are we up to?”

Introductions are made all around, and Josh bears it stoically as Molly faux-whispers to me, “Ooh, he’s a keeper.” But I don’t think I imagine it as the hand around my waist squeezes a little tighter. 

Josh remains very patient as my mom and Molly fall into the mom-patter of how much they miss their kids but how lovely it is to see them grow even as they miss them, and, goodness, they hope they are made into grandmothers soon. I blush up to my hairline at that, but Josh looks like he doesn’t hate the idea. 

Eventually, though, Molly’s gaggle of long term friends arrive, and she has to meet them for cocktails and dinner. “Or  _ more  _ cocktails and dinner,” she says. She and my mom exchange email addresses and, because they are middle-aged moms, add each other on Facebook, and then Molly gives us each a cheek-kiss goodbye before she leaves. 

As we return to the hostess and get ourselves seated, my mom is completely alight. “I miss your dad whenever we’re apart, but there’s something just so lovely about the female friendships you make when you’re a woman alone,” she says dreamily. “Goodness, I’m just so lucky to get to have both.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek that is in no way inspired by the glass of wine I had downed. Like mother like daughter: we both get a little sentimental when we drink. And why not? It was a good evening full of the people I loved. Josh holds my hand under the table, and I am more full of love than I know what to do with. 

***

My mom’s trip is scheduled for five days, and I steal every minute with her that I can. We spend Saturday making the most of the warm spring weather, moving around the city on foot and on the bus, which, as my mom keeps mentioning, makes her feel like she is  _ really  _ in the city. We have brunch at an outdoor cafe, browse at my favorite bookstore, then browse at another bookstore that, strictly speaking, I like less, but is still lovely and is iconic enough that my mom is eager to check it out. We grab a snack at a falafel stand and just generally indulge in all the touristy things that fall by the wayside when you live in a city as opposed to just visit it. Josh drives down to the seaport to meet us for dinner, and if the early April wind is a little chilly right by the water, it’s worth it for the overall effect. The breeze ruffles my mom’s hair, making her look like the heroine in an old film. 

Monday morning, though, is her flight back, and no amount of offering on our part will entice her into letting me or Josh drive her back to the airport. “Lucinda Hutton, do not be ridiculous,” she admonishes. “There is absolutely no sense in your sitting in traffic and making yourself late for work, not when there’s a perfectly good public transportation system.”

“Mom,” I try to reason. “They’re not going to, like, report it to HR if I come in late one day. The company is not going to crumble without me for one morning.” 

“Sanderson might,” Josh offers unhelpfully. 

But my mom is insistent, although she eventually, as a compromise and with the air of someone who is doing me a great favor, accepts my offer to pay for a cab. 

And so Monday, as Josh and I are getting ready for work, my mom is packing up to head back home. When I do my makeup that morning, I put on waterproof mascara, because I’m no idiot. There will certainly be some tears. I know myself too well to think anything different. 

In fact, I catch my mom wiping her eyes surreptitiously over breakfast, and when the time comes to load her into the cab, we are both a little bright-eyed. 

“Come visit soon,” she says, hugging me tight tight tight. She has always been an excellent hugger. “Both of you,” she adds over my shoulder to Josh. I squeeze her back. The cab driver is starting to look a little impatient and I make a mental note to add to the already-substantial tip I had planned.

“Say hi to dad for me,” I say. “Tell him I love him and miss him and that we have a plant now.”

“Which Lucy is strictly forbidden from watering,” Josh confides as my mom pantomimes relief. I may have a slight history with overwatering and resultant plant death. 

One more hug for each of us, cheek kisses, and a maternal smoothing of my hair and then she really does have to get into the cab and we really do have to get going to work. She waves and blows kisses out the back window as the car disappears down the street. 

I am, of course, openly crying on the sidewalk. Josh wraps his arms around my waist from behind and tucks my head under his chin. I lean back into his warmth. “Oh, Luce,” he soothes. “We’ll see her again soon--both of them.”

“I know,” I sniffle. “I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know why I always get like this.”

His kiss to the top of my head is a firm pressure. “It’s okay to be sad, my little Shortcake.”

I turn in his arms, and hug him back gratefully. His steadiness in these moments is something I can rely on. I hope the pleasure of being on his team never faces. 

“Just a little sad, though,” I say into his chest. 

I feel more than hear his hum of agreement and he holds me for just a little while longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the part in the book where Lucy talks about her mom giving up her dreams for her dad/their life together and Annie not being sad about the choices she made (but also being a little sad about it!) always GUTS me, that one-two punch of loving the life you have but also wondering what if? so I wanted Annie to get to have her own little adventure, tucked inside this fic


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's birthday now!

Chapter Twenty-Three

When I wake up on the morning of my birthday, Josh is missing. At first, I assume he has just rolled over, which is rare but not unprecedented (he’s a clingy sleeper), and I sweep a half-asleep, blind arm across his side of the bed, only to come up empty. This wakes me up a bit. It’s still early and also it is Sunday. I listen for the shower. Nothing. 

This is weird. My plans for today had been to be truly, shockingly lazy, but curiosity compels me to drag myself out of bed. I do it wearing a blanket like a cloak, though, because it is my birthday, and I deserve to be comfy. 

The rest of the apartment is also empty. 

This is very, very weird. 

I am just heading back to the bedroom to get my phone and text Josh to find out if he has been raptured or just picked a really weird time to run errands when he comes through the front door, carrying . “What are you doing here?” he asks, pulling out his headphones. 

I give him a weird look. “I live here? You do remember that, right?”

“No, no--” I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, stop it, Shortcake, that’s not what I meant. You’re supposed to be in bed.” He raises the bags in his hand. “I went and bought breakfast for your birthday!”

Oh, how sweet. “Do you want me to pretend to be still asleep?”

“Yes please. I had a whole plan.”

I trundle myself back to bed, swooning a little over how cute he can be. If someone had told me, on my last birthday, which I had spent working all day and then eating takeout alone over a Skype call with my parents, pretending I wasn’t lonely and sad, that on my next birthday, my taciturn new officemate would be insisting on bringing me breakfast in bed, in our apartment, where we lived together, I would have put down whatever I was doing to fetch that person a soothing drink. 

Joshua Templeman, it turns out, is a very, very good boyfriend. 

I tuck myself under the blankets (which, if we’re being perfectly honest, is where I wanted to be, anyway) and gamely close my eyes. I’m comfortable enough that I am halfway back to falling asleep when Josh comes in the room with a tray. 

“Happy birthday, Shortcake,” he says, sounding just a little pleased with himself. He deserves it, though, because the breakfast tray he has assembled is  _ incredible _ . He has bought eggs benedict from my favorite breakfast spot as well the honey and lavender latte that I love. There’s also a tulip in a little cup of water. I am speechless. 

“You went to like three different places for this stuff,” I say. This is legitimately the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. “I didn’t even know this place did takeout.”

“I talked them into it,” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye. I feel bad for whatever waiter tried to tell him no. “I gave them a really good tip, though, so we can definitely still go back there.”

“Oh good,” I say through a mouthful of breakfast potatoes. “Do you want some?”

He shakes his head. “Mine is in the kitchen, it just didn’t fit on the tray, let me go grab it.”

When he comes back, he’s juggling a plate in one hand and his own coffee and a paper bag in the other. “I almost forgot, I brought you a pastry.” My eyes widen like a child’s. It’s a bearclaw. I am in love. 

“You are the perfect boyfriend,” I tell him earnestly. “Seriously, Josh, this is incredible. What a perfect birthday gift.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Nice try, Shortcake. This is not your present. We are just getting started, so tuck in.” When he winks, I melt. 

***

My birthday present from Josh is a massive bookshelf, which is as symbolic as it is practical, as he definitely thinks I own too many books (“You do realize that you’re the woman who pioneered a massive digitization project, right?” “It’s not the  _ same _ , Josh.”) and I already do own two considerably-sized shelves which I’ve filled with my home books, as well as another truly gigantic one in my office at work. He tactfully and, I assume, in deference to my birthday, does not mention that my collection is becoming impractical. 

“When did you even get this in here?” I gasp, delighted, when he shows me my gift, already built and ready in the guest room. 

He grins, satisfied with my reaction. “It’s honestly been in here all week. I was banking on the fact that you...basically never come in here. It was a gamble, but I won.”

“I love it, I seriously love it,” I coo, running my hands over the clean lines of the shelves. It looks great in this room; I mentally begin to plan which of my books will be the most aesthetically pleasing on the dark wood, weighing the possibility of dragging some boxes out of storage against the joys of book shopping. 

I would personally be happy to spend the rest of my birthday reorganizing my books--a joyous organizational task if there ever was one--but Josh nudges me towards the shower, telling me that we have one more thing on our itinerary today, though he flatly refuses to tell me what it is. I wheedle for a while, but I recognize the stubborn look in his eye and realize this will get me nowhere. It isn’t unheard of, for me to wear him down in these games of ours, but it takes more time than I have right now. With the recommendation to wear something comfortable, but nice enough to wear to dinner, I slip off to primp. 

I shower quickly; my hair is clean enough, but I decide to exfoliate and use my favorite lotion, because it’s my birthday, damn it. I twist the top of my curls on each side back into a clip, leaving it half-up, half-down, so that the ends tickle my collarbones. I add to this a cream-colored silky tee-shirt with a scoop neck that dances nicely in the space between formal and casual, and dark jeans that fit well, but loosely enough that they’re comfortable. I pay special attention to my eyeliner, winging it carefully until it’s sharp and even. For a devilish moment I consider trying to lure Josh into the bathroom before I apply my Flamethrower, but lipstick-application-as-seduction is a highly powerful technique best used sparingly and, besides, we have somewhere to be. 

When I emerge, Josh has made up some simple sandwiches--turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo on a delicious hearty seed bread we’ve become hooked on--and is checking something on his phone. He looks up, and his pupils dilate. “You look incredible, Shortcake.” He reaches an arm out to me, and I take his hand. He tugs me into his lap. “You have no business looking this good.” He presses an openmouthed kiss behind my ear and my body temperature skyrockets. How is it possible that he makes me feel this way still? His charms should be wearing thin, but they don't. They don't. 

I tilt my head to the side to give him better access because, again, happy birthday to  _ me _ , but Josh growls an unhappy little growl and pulls his head back. He gives me that dark look that used to make me think he was the biggest dick in the world. I am blushing like a traffic light, I’m sure. I pout, because I am one year older, but I am just as sulky as ever. 

Josh touches one fingertip to my lower lip, then snatches his hand back. “No, Luce, if we start with this, we will never get out of here, and I made plans.” 

“We could make  _ better  _ plans,” I offer hopefully. 

I watch the gentle bob of his throat as he swallows and think for a second that he’ll give in. But then he blinks decisively and the stubborn look is back. “The plans we have are very good plans. The better plans are for later.”

“Promise?” I am coy and sweet. 

Josh blushes, making me giddy with my own power, then plants his hands firmly on my hips and sets me solidly on my feet. “You are going to be the death of me, Lucinda. Please do not look at me right now. Eat your sandwich.” He takes a furious bite of his own sandwich. “Do I promise,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “The woman is trying to kill me.”

I politely avert my eyes and eat my sandwich. His dismay is delicious and just about makes up for the fact that I also am trying to pretend that I am not thinking filthy thoughts about getting him out of his clothes. 

It’s a good sandwich but, goodness, I am only human. 

We both try to be on our very best behavior as we finish up lunch and Josh quickly washes the plates. On our way out the door, I shrug into a bomber jacket, and reapply my lipstick in the little mirror in the coat closet that I have placed here for just this reason. As I’m doing my first blot, Josh comes up behind me, catches my eye in the mirror, and then spins on his heel. “Nope,” he mutters to himself, heading back into the apartment for a moment. “Nope, nope.”

We leave the city, and the spring air is so crisp that driving with the windows down is too decadent to miss, even knowing that it’s going to make my hair crazy. Josh drives--our destination is still secret--and I man the radio, pulling songs from his upbeat gym playlists, bouncing in my seat with the rhythm. Josh isn’t much of a car dancer, but I pick the most contagious music I can find, and he can’t resist bopping his head along. When he doesn’t need it to drive, he rests his right hand on my knee, and something about the casual affection makes my head spin. Who could have imagined any of this? 

After about an hour, we have left big roads behind, and are now trundling through increasingly tiny roads, surrounded by increasingly rural buildings, and then, gradually, no buildings at all. 

“Are you taking me out to the woods to murder me?” I ask mildly. 

“It’s a surprise!” He gives me a playful wink. 

Soon, though, we come to a battered handmade sign that says “FARM” with a large arrow pointing to the right, which Josh follows. We follow a few more signs that don’t inspire much hope for what lies ahead before, around the bend of a hill, appears a charming little farmhouse, orchards and fields, a few tents, and parking spots. “Welcome to Apple Hill Farm and Restaurant!” reads a banner stylized to look like a massive cross-stitch sampler. 

Josh pulls into a spot, stops the car, and then turns to face me. “Okay, so I know this looks a little hokey, but the reviews are great. Their whole thing is that you get to pick your own fruits and vegetables and stuff--whatever you want--and then based on what you pick they will make you a fancy dinner and pair wines and stuff. You can also, I think, basically pick your own chicken to eat? But honestly, that seemed sort of stressful, so I chose the option where we can just decide what kinds of meat we want and not have to, you know, see its face first.” He’s rambling a bit. “And maybe that isn’t ethical meat consumption--maybe we should have to see its face first--but that seemed a bit preach-y for your birthday, when really the vibe I was going for was fun.”

“Josh,” I interrupt with a hand on his knee. “This is great. I love it.”

He blinks to reset his ramble. So rarely does his stress reactions include flustered prattling--he tends more towards stony--that I want to laugh, but he seems so earnest, so eager for me to be pleased with the plan he’s made for us that I keep it in. 

“Yeah?” he asks, the edges of his smile creeping back. 

“Yeah.” I punctuate my affirmation with a kiss.

At the entry tent, a peppy woman about our age hands us a large basket and a checklist and gives us instructions on how to choose our food. It’s still early in the year, but we’re far enough downstate that some early spring crops are available for harvest, but the farm also has a hothouse, where they can play with the seasonal calendar a bit. The guide assures us that all the crops available in the hothouse  _ could  _ be grown locally, just not necessarily locally this time of year. The checklist is for any preferred proteins, though she highly recommends the option that allows the chef to choose based on your produce choices, as well as dietary restrictions and preferences. She asks if we have any questions, and then ushers us out into the massive fields, each labelled with the same hand-lettered signs that offered directions. 

Josh takes the basket in one hand and my hand in the other. The sun isn’t setting, just waning, and the light warms the vast fields of greens. I take a deep breath. We don’t get air like this in the city, crisp and clean and just a little bit cool. “This is amazing, Josh,” I breathe, squeezing his hand. 

He looks pleased and proud. 

We meander through the fields for the better part of an hour. At first I am worried that we need a plan for the vegetables we pick, but Josh points out that that’s the whole point, to get someone else to make the plan for you. Then I worry about potential waste, but he has the answer to that, too; he read the fine print. “Anything we pick that they don’t use for our dinner will get used in the regular restaurant,” he assures me. “Not everybody does the pick-your-own option.” 

After that, it’s just fun. 

We find stalks of asparagus and little button mushrooms. I relish the crisp smell of hothouse tomatoes on the vine. When I finish reaching up to pluck a crisp early apple off a low-hanging bough, I turn to see Josh lowering his phone. He shrugs, a little sheepish at having been caught. “You look incredible,” he offers as explanation. 

I want to kiss him senseless right there in the orchard but there are families around, so I keep it PG. 

When our basket looks to be just about right for two people--a built-in plan for extras aside, there’s no sense in being wasteful--we stroll back over towards the farmhouse, which has been converted to a restaurant. A waiter, whose crisp uniform is a contrast to the fact that he looks to be about fifteen, leads us to a table on the back deck. Heat lamps keep the chill at bay. 

A basket of bread arrives, along with a glass of wine. Josh has started to look so relaxed in the waning sunlight that I can't help but smile. I scrunch my nose at him over the rim of my glass of wine. 

The courses come, each more impressive than the last. We start with a bruschetta, made from our tomatoes, followed by a cold poached salmon over asparagus, garnished with lemon. By the time dessert comes, an apple tart with a generous dollop of vanilla ice cream, I feel happily stuffed, and just a little bit buzzed from the wine pairings. 

“Happy birthday, Shortcake,” he says to me, reaching lazily across the table to hold my hand. 

“Seriously, Josh--this was the best birthday ever.” 

“Love you, Shortcake.”

“You too, Templeman.” 


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note of warning: this is a little less fluffy than what is usually happening here, and there's nothing graphic and nobody dies, but if talking about a medical emergency stresses you out, just be aware!!

Chapter Twenty-Four

I am dreaming that B&G has been rearranged to fit inside my middle school library when the ringing phone jars me awake. I’m confused for a moment--was that sound in my dream?--but Josh is moving, too. 

“I think that’s your phone,” I groan into the dark. A moment after I say it, though, the whole scenario clicks into place. It’s the middle of the night, and Josh’s phone has rung at least twice, and that never, ever spells anything but bad news. The same thing hits Josh a split second later, and he quickly pulls himself to a seated position.

“Hello?” he asks. 

A male voice speaks rapidly on the other end of the line. I prop myself up and grab for my own phone. 2:34 am. 

“My god. Fuck, okay,” Josh says into the phone. “Yeah, yeah. Davis General?” The sinking feeling in my chest gets worse. “I’ll be right there, I’m coming.” The voice seems to protest. “Don’t be an idiot, Patrick. Of course I’m coming. Yeah, okay, see you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and takes a deep, long breath. I don’t rush him. I have gotten bad news before, and I remember that moment before you have to say it out loud, before it all becomes real. I just reach out and touch his arm. 

Josh lets out the breath in a sigh. “My dad. He had--well, he had what they think is a heart attack.” 

“Fuck, Josh.” I say. 

He gives his head a frustrated shake. “Patrick said they think it’s okay? I guess he’s conscious, but I still have to get to the hospital.” 

“Okay.” I reach over and flip on the light, start to get out of bed. 

“Shortcake,” he says. “You don’t have to--”

“Josh.” I cut him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have to sit in there, if you don’t want, but I’m going to drive you, obviously. You’re upset.”

I’m around to his side of the bed by this point, on my way to the bathroom. He snakes an arm around my waist, and pulls me close to the edge of the bed. He presses his face into my stomach; I card my fingers through the short hair on the back of his head. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I just--thanks for coming with me.” 

“Of course,” I tell him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Whatever you need, always.” 

Josh squeezes me tighter for a beat, then two, then releases me with a side and hauls himself out of bed. We brush our teeth, throw on the easiest clothes we can find. I splash water on my face, and we’re out the door. 

My driving was a self-evidently good idea; Josh is flustered and fidgets restlessly and relentlessly from the moment we get in the car. Soon thereafter, he starts fielding text messages, primarily from Patrick, but also a few from Mindy, who is also rushing to the hospital. We learn that Patrick was already there, on duty. After his dad arrived, he started offloading his patients onto other doctors, but isn’t totally free yet. Mindy is closer than we are, but I hurry anyway. Elaine shouldn’t be alone, not even for a minute. Traffic is fortunately light this time of night, though I am mindful to not speed  _ too  _ much. Getting pulled over would definitely slow us down. 

I learned that I am good in a crisis the first year I lived in the city, when my dad collapsed in the fields one day. It turned out to be heatstroke--and god, I can still practically hear my mom yelling, half relieved that it wasn’t more serious, half furious that he had gotten so wrapped up in picking strawberries, of all things, that he had forgotten to drink water or move to the shade before he literally passed out--but we didn’t know that, not at first. I had emerged from a Gamin staff meeting--which were generally more chaotic pre-merger--and seen three missed calls from my mom. My mom never called in the middle of the day. Then there was a text that said only CALL ME BACK NOW. My heart had basically stopped. 

My mom was a wreck. Just an absolute wreck to the point where I was nearly as worried about her as I was about my dad. But after that initial moment of fear, I had kept a cool head. The worst part had been the distance--I was too far away to really do anything substantive--but my mom had put me on the phone with a nurse at one point, and I had ended up wrangling health insurance information, and keeping my mom calm through a sort of veneer of cool-headedness that kept the panic at bay. 

After everything was said and done, I had sobbed my eyes out, of course. So much so that I almost made myself sick with it, which felt ridiculous, because by that point I knew my dad was  _ fine _ , but it was like all the emotions I had held back when I needed to suddenly demanded to be let out. 

But now, like then, I am the cool head. 

The hospital is about forty minutes away, and Josh feels every second of it. “How close are we?” he asks tersely every few minutes. I answer with the most accurate information that I have. 

“Shit, sorry, Shortcake,” he says after the third time he asks. His hand reaches out to squeeze my knee. “I know that’s not helping anything. I’m being a dick.” 

“You’re not being a dick.” I flick a glance over at him, and then give his hand a quick squeeze before returning to the steering wheel, because the last thing we need right now is for us to get in an accident. “You’re stressed. This is stressful. It’s okay, it makes sense.”

“It’s just…” He looks out the window. I can see his expression in the window; he looks exhausted, the lines of his face tight. “It’s just, things are so complicated with my dad. And he can be such an  _ asshole _ , you know?” I nod to show that I’m listening, but I don’t think he needs an interruption. “Like he’s never really given a shit about me, except to tell me all the ways that I’m fucking up, and I don’t want to spend time with him basically ever, because it’s such a fucking ordeal, every single time, but also--” His breath is shaky. “But also he’s still my dad. And I want him to be okay. And I don’t want him to be upset that I came.”

“Oh Josh,” I say. I know it is karmically unsound to think bad thoughts about Anthony in this moment but it is so hard to quelch down the anger for the years of mistreatment. We’re pulling off the highway. “I hate that he ever made you feel like he might not be happy to see you. But--” I make a right-hand turn. We’re close to the hospital now, according to the GPS. “Coming tonight is the right thing. If he is upset, that is  _ his problem _ , and it’s not because of anything you did.” I swallow hard against my anger, lest it creep into my tone. “You could spend your whole life trying to please him, but if he is determined to be so--so--” I fumble for the right word “so determined to  _ not  _ be pleased, that’s on him.” Josh continues to gaze at the streetlights flashing past, his knee jiggling furiously. “I wish I knew how else to help, but you are perfect, and it’s insane not to see that.”

At this, he turns to look at me. Out of the corner of my eye I see him smile, his face still lined with worry, but with a softness breaking in. “That helps, Shortcake. Thank you.”

“I love you,” I say, because his thanking me for saying something that is so obviously  _ true  _ feels absurd. “It’s all going to be okay.”

We arrive at the hospital a few minutes later. A nurse at the front desk directs us to the cardiology wing. We find Mindy, now visibly pregnant, rubbing slow circles on Elaine’s back. She gives a small, sad smile when she sees us. Elaine’s eyes are red; she’s clearly trying not to cry. As Josh crosses to her, she stands to allow him to fold her in his arms. “I got you, Mom,” he says quietly. Elaine sniffles a little at that. 

Patrick returns a moment later with a tray full of coffees--”I got it out of the doctor’s lounge, which is still garbage, but better than the cafeteria garbage”--and explains the situation. It turns out that what Anthony suffered  _ was  _ a heart attack, one of medium severity. He is getting an angioplasty put in as we speak, which Patrick assures us is, as far as heart surgeries go, a relatively minor one. Elaine nods absently when he says this. I wonder if it’s better or worse to be a surgeon in cases like these. You have all the information, but you also know all the risks.

Patrick continues, explaining that Anthony will have to take a whole spate of medications as he recovers, and possibly for far longer, but that, at this point, we have every reason to be optimistic. 

And then there is nothing to do but wait. 

Mindy excuses herself to go to the bathroom--”I’m only in my second trimester but already I have to pee basically constantly,” she complains with a soft eye roll that is at odds with the affectionate caress she gives to her gently rounded belly. “I’m terrified to see what the third trimester looks like”--and so I take her post next to Elaine, who clutches my hand gratefully. 

“Let’s talk about anything that’s not this,” she says, waving her hand to encompass the waiting room and, I presume, her entire shitty day. “Tell me about work.”

So I chatter on a bit, telling workplace stories that are slightly exaggerated to punch up the comedic value of the tiny frustrations that anyone who has ever worked in an office knows well. It seems that these experiences translate to working in a hospital, because she gives weak chuckles in the right places, and asks follow up-questions that are clearly designed to keep me talking. I’m sure there are better distractions in the world, but this is the best one I have on hand. 

Josh alternately paces, confers with Patrick in hushed tones, and sits quietly with his head tipped back against the wall. During one of the pacing jags, I catch his eye.  _ You okay? _ I mouth at him. I certainly want to be here for Elaine, but it would be a lie to say that Josh isn’t my priority. But he nods, then tips his head towards his mom, and mouths,  _ Thanks _ , so I maintain my post. Mindy joins us off and on, contributing her own workplace misadventures. Eventually this morphs into pregnancy and baby talk, which does seem to lighten Elaine a bit. 

After about an hour of this, a doctor comes through the big double doors that lead back further into the ward. Elaine and Patrick, who know the who’s who of the hospital, jolt to their feet, Mindy, Josh, and I a beat behind them. 

“Elaine,” the doctor says warmly, confirming that he knows her professionally, at least a bit. I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t have called her “Mrs. Templeman”--even if it would be incorrect, I doubted that patients’ spouses disclosed their professional degrees--if he hadn’t known her ahead of time. “The surgery went well.” We all heave a collective sigh of relief, but we can’t dwell, because the doctor is still talking. “He had a partial blockage, and he’ll be taking anticoagulants likely for the rest of his life, but there were no complications, so at this point, we have no reason to believe that the rest of his life won’t be a good, long time.”

“Thank god,” Mindy says under her breath. 

“Now,” the doctor continues, “and I’ll be telling this to him too, once he’s awake and clear headed, but he needs to stress less. This should be a sign to him that the physical health stuff is all well and good, but he’s going to put himself at just as much risk if the mental health isn’t in order, too.” Patrick opens his mouth, and the doctor holds up a hand. “Now, I have met him, so I know he’s not going to like that, so I’ll do what I can to get it through his stubborn head. But I’m guessing you’re going to have to stay on him, Elaine.”

She nods. “Thanks, Dale, really.” Her smile is tired, but relieved. 

He clasps her shoulder. It’s brief but heartfelt. “Of course. Listen, he should be up for visitors in about--” he glances at his watch “--forty minutes, maybe an hour, depending on how groggy he feels when he wakes up. The anesthesia makes some people nauseous. But you’ll be with him soon. And when this is all over, Jane and I will have you over for dinner, and I’ll take the complaints from Anthony for one night for making him eat something healthy. Okay?”

“Sounds great,” Elaine says, and after one more gentle shoulder pat from the doctor, he is gone, rushing off to administer his skills at life-saving to another poor patient. 

When we sit down to wait this time, it is with considerably less stress. Patrick in particular is almost giddy with it, intermittently letting loose a slightly hysterical-sounding giggle, and then quickly stifling it and looking guiltily at his mother. From the way she smiles at him, I don’t think she minds. I think she feels the same way. 

The only person who does not seem more relaxed is Josh. He visibly relaxed when the doctor told us Anthony was going to be okay, slumping like a puppet cut from its strings, but now, as the moment where he has to actually face his dad looms, his back stiffens up again. But this anxiety is more familiar, the usual pressures of dealing with a difficult father rather than the barely-suppressed panic of a few hours ago. 

After a few minutes of sitting there, Josh’s hand loosely clasped in mine, I realize that Patrick is looking at me strangely. “‘Sup, Patrick?” I ask lightly. 

He blinks, a little surprised. I don’t think he realized he was being weird. “Oh, sorry, Lucy--sorry. I just--sorry, you look different, and I think I was trying to pinpoint it.”

Josh’s hand tightens around mine, and all the women in the room immediately shoot him venomous glances. “Who raised you?” Elaine asks.

“ _ Seriously?”  _ Mindy sounds scandalized.

I have never liked the two of them more. 

“I mean, I was pretty asleep when we got the call…” Thanks for the confidence boost, Patrick. 

But he cuts me off with a snap of his fingers. “The lipstick!” he crows, pointing at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without it.”

I cock an eyebrow. “It didn’t seem like a priority.”

They’re all looking at me kind of quizzically, though. Even Josh, who lives with me, and who has seen me completely barefaced many, many, many times, is appraising. “I don’t think anyone has,” he comments lightly. “This is a rare event.” He gives me a little smile. It’s fleeting, but it’s there. 

“Still,” Mindy says, standing decisively. “I apologize for my husband, who apparently missed the day in school where you learned how to be a person. Patrick, escort me to the bathroom.” 

She takes off regally, Patrick trailing behind her asking, “Wait, wait, what did I do?”

I take it back.  _ Now _ I have never liked Mindy Templeman more. 

A little while later, a nurse pokes his head out of the ward and tells us that Anthony is ready to see visitors now, but only a few, and only one at a time. 

Elaine goes first. 

Then Patrick.

I can feel the nerves coming off Josh. 

“Want to talk about it?” I ask quietly while always-tactful Mindy aggressively doesn’t make eye contact. He shakes his head, and gives me a soft, tense smile. 

Soon, though, Patrick comes out, and it’s Josh's turn to go in and my turn to be nervous. I know it’s silly--I know Josh will be able to stand up to whatever Anthony slings his way, and he ironclad self-control, so it’s not like he’ll snap at his ailing father--but I really,  _ really  _ don’t want to be mad at Anthony right now, so I’m going to need him to do his part and be a decent fucking father for once. 

When Josh comes out, though, I can’t quite read his expression, even after he gives me a reassuring nod. 

After that, things move very quickly. The nurses are able to get a plush reclining chair for Eileen, so she can sleep in Anthony’s room, as long as she doesn’t expect he’ll be awake to talk any more that night. Patrick has to touch base with the doctors who took over his patients before he can officially close out his shift and head home with Mindy. And Josh just looks wrecked enough that I want to get him home. 

The sun is coming up and I make a mental note to tell both of our offices that we’ll be coming in late, if at all. We need to catch at least a few more hours of sleep, and Josh may need a few more after that to process. 

The ride home is quiet. Not unpleasantly so, but more like with the soft buzz of exhaustion. We get home around the time we would normally wake up. We drag ourselves upstairs, kick off our shoes, and fall onto the bed in the clothes we’re wearing. I wrap my arms around his neck and cradle him into my shoulder. He presses in tight and, after a minute, starts to cry a little. “I know,” I say against the top of his head. “It’s okay.” 

I know these are meaningless platitudes, but there’s really nothing better to say, and all anyone really wants when they are crying is to be held and soothed by someone they love, and I can provide that. 

When he’s done, I slip down until we are face to face, curled up into little comma shapes on the bed. “I love you, Lucy. I’m so glad you were there tonight.”

“I love you, too. I’ll always be there if you need me.” 

“I know.” The pull of sleep is strong and he begins to droop. I can feel it, too, despite the creeping brightness of morning.

“Good.” And we both drift off to sleep. 


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> car shopping time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE the part where Lucy says boys don't need defending and Josh says "this boy did," so I wanted to see that dynamic reversed... but the reverse isn't exactly the same, so they have a conversation about it, because I am trash for heartfelt communication

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Okay, Shortcake, you have dodged it long enough. You have that trade conference in two weeks. You need to buy a car.”

“Noooooooooooo,” I moan, letting my head loll dramatically back on the couch. 

“Yes,” Josh declares decisively. 

In the weeks since Anthony’s surgery, we have been busy enough that the car situation has been tabled. It turns out that--miracle of miracles--Anthony was actually quite nice to Josh in the hospital that day. 

“He said he was glad I was there, and it would be his fault if I didn’t come,” Josh had told me the next morning. “He actually said he was sorry.” That was the point in the whole thing where  _ I  _ had started to get a little weepy. Damn Anthony actually pulled through. 

We’d seen Josh’s parents a few times since then, and while Josh still maintained that it was mainly for his mom, he did seem to be slightly less stressed on the way to each visit, with each successive piece of evidence that maybe Anthony would continue to be decent. Josh didn’t seem ready to forgive--and god knew I didn’t blame him--but it was a start. 

But apparently the dual distractors of a busy week at work and his father’s recovery had worn thin enough that he remembered the ongoing car issue. 

Drat. If I had pulled it off for two more weeks, I would have taken the train to the conference and been scot free. I could have gone without needing a car for like six months after that. 

“Please, Josh, do not make me do this.”

“I believe in you, Shortcake.”

Damn him and his stupid emotional support. 

“I want it noted that I am doing this under extreme duress.” I roll myself dramatically off the couch, which Josh ignores. He heads into the kitchen. “I don’t feel as though you are pitying me appropriately!” I call after him. 

He pokes his head back in. “I warned you ahead of time, Luce. You had the chance to have a nice boyfriend but then you played yourself and fell in love with me, and now you’re stuck with me.” 

“ _ Stuck with you _ seems strong.”

Josh considers this. “Well, that’s true. But you live here, and moving is  _ such  _ a hassle, so I kind of doubt this is going to be the thing that makes you leave me.”

“Let’s see how today goes before making any decisions on that front,” I grouse. He chuckles. 

I am not unaware of the world. I know that I am a small woman who likes to wear bright lipstick and whimsical clothes and I smile a lot and I like to be nice to people, and I know that that means that a lot of people--by which I mostly mean  _ men _ \--don’t take me seriously. I have fought against this at work by being very good at what I do (and, okay, sure, with some coaching from Josh) and by being  _ consistently  _ very good. 

And, sure, most of my knowledge of car shopping and its potential sexist pitfalls comes from television, which I’m sure has some factual inaccuracies, but I have been condescended to enough that it is not unreasonable to suspect it will happen again. 

I put on some dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt. It’s casual but also classy, assertive. I think. I pull my hair into a bun, which isn’t my favorite look and my curls were looking great today, but it makes me look a little older, which feels like a bonus.

I do still wear my Flamethrower, though, because that makes me  _ feel  _ like a grownup, which has got to be worth more than the difference a judgmental perception makes. 

When I emerge, Josh quirks an eyebrow at me. “I feel like I’m going to regret asking, but is there a reason you’re dressed like you’re going to a meeting? Particularly when you don’t even dress like that for actual meetings?”

“Do not start with me, Templeman,” I say, raising a warning finger. “You are making me ruin my Saturday with this horrible task where I am sure to be condescended to by a middle-aged man. There will be  _ bartering _ , which is horrible and should be illegal, and then I have to spend a lot of money on a thing I don’t even want. So I will be accepting no criticism today.”

He raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Got it. I am just along for the ride. Unless you want me to yell at somebody, in which case, say the word, and I am totally your man.”

“There is definitely a joke there about you being my man, but I have to save up my witty repartee energy, so it’s out of reach.”

“I’m sure it would have been hilarious.” 

“Thank you.”

I drive, because I am twitchy with nervous energy, because I hope it will confer some kind of authority on the bullshit machismo scale that I am afraid I will find at this car dealership, and because I am pretending that it will instill in me the juju of someone who enjoys driving more than I do, thereby making me excited, even in some small way, about the upcoming events of this afternoon. 

When I  _ mhmm  _ passively in response to Josh’s attempts and conversation for the third time in a row, he gives me an assessing glance. “Lucy, I know I agreed to no criticism, but you have a vaguely alarming energy right now.”

“This is my game face, Josh. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Yeah, okay. Give ‘em hell, Shortcake.”

Even though I had been nurturing the feverish, wildly optimistic dream that I would never have to actually do this, I have nevertheless done the research. I know what car I want, I know what features I am interested in, and which ones are meaningless to me. I know my choice of color. I know what is a reasonable price, and what is a bullshit price. 

It feels good to reach the self-pump-up portion of today’s mental journey. 

By the time we get to the dealership, I have convinced myself that I am going to  _ fuck it up  _ with this car purchase. I’m in a weird, somewhat hostile brain space (Josh keeps cutting his eyes to the side, like he feels like he should be monitoring the situation, but also like he’s afraid to make full eye contact), but I’m going to use it instead of investigating it. 

An overly jocular white-haired man greets us when we enter the lot. This is already my nightmare. 

“Hello, sir!” he greets Josh. “Looking for a new car?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Josh mumbles under his breath. 

“I  _ told you, _ ” I hiss back. 

“ _ She _ is looking for a new car,” Josh answers, indicating to me. 

And, I kid you not, the guy does a double take. “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m sure we can find something nice for you and your husband.”

“Are you  _ serious?”  _ Josh asks. “Lucy, I owe you dinner.This is a nightmare.” 

I’m not sure what the car salesman thinks we’re talking about, because he smiles throughout this exchange. 

I stick out my hand, hoping that something here is salvageable. “ _ I  _ will be buying the car. I’m Lucy. Here’s the car I’m interested in.” I hand him the printout of what I’m looking for because, that’s right, I am  _ prepared _ . I am went-to-the-printer prepared. 

“Jerry,” Jerry says, still so annoyingly jocular, “and this is a nice model, but it’s not the car you want. For you, you’re going to want to--”

“No,” Josh interrupts. “Absolutely not. Are you  _ listening  _ to yourself, Jerry? Have you not spoken to women since Eisenhower was president? Have you spent the last forty years in a bunker? In fact--” he starts moving past Jerry “--surely a woman works here. Why don’t you go find someone else to help us there, Jerry?”

Oho  _ now  _ Jerry looks at me. “Better luck next time, Jer,” I tell him. He gives a little indignant huff, but shuffles off obediently when Josh gives him a narrow-eyed stare. 

When Jerry is out of earshot, Josh lets out a long breath. “God, sorry Shortcake. I know I said I was going to stay out of it, but that guy broke me a little. He was like the bad dad from an old-timey movie.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up. “And then I just took over! God, I did the thing too!”

I grab his hand before he could mess with his hair any more. “Josh, you’re fine. Remember when I yelled at your dad in front of a whole restaurant of people at your brother’s wedding?”

This memory always cheers him up. “Yeah, that was great.”

“Well, this was your yelling moment. And yeah, there’s a whole sprawling sexism issue behind this one, but you do realize that having a man care about another man’s shitty gender politics is, like, the dream, right?” He looks suspicious, and I can’t help but start to laugh. “Also, that guy was just, like  _ so transparent _ . Like he was one sentence away from calling me ‘sweetheart.’”

“I don’t feel like this is funny,” Josh says hesitantly. “Not that I am any expert on this topic, but my feelings are more...mad.”

This makes me laugh harder. “Yeah, this dude obviously sucks! But it’s the dudes that...un-obviously suck are worse. They’re sneaky with their shittiness.”

“I feel like you’re thinking about Bexley.”

I shrug. “He’s not that stealthy about it, but I’m not  _ not  _ thinking about Bexley.” 

From across the parking lot, I see a blue-polo wearing woman heading towards us. She looks faintly exasperated, so I can only assume she’s been talking to Jerry and is headed for us. I raise a hand, and she nods and starts heading towards us a little more decisively. 

“Is is stupid that it annoys me that I can’t fix that for you?” Josh asks. 

“Extremely stupid,” I tell him. “But sweet. But stupid, yes.” I give him an affectionate nudge and he rolls his eyes. 

It is upon this charming tableau that the saleswoman arrives. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Shira. I heard from my…” she hesitates just slightly and in that breath I know for sure that she hates Jerry with a fiery passion “colleague that you’re looking to buy a car.” She addresses me directly and I am suddenly so, so pleased that she’ll be the one getting the commission. 

***

There is a moment when I’m actually signing the papers where my pulse gets so fast that I’m a little worried that I’m going to faint, but anxiety about major purchases aside, the car buying goes smoothly once Shira, who objectively rules, takes the reins. 

Between my purchasing success and Josh’s “sorry for bullying you into entering a pit of misogyny” apology dinner, I am feeling pretty good about how my day has gone as I dig into a basket of injera bread. I have been dying to try this Ethiopian restaurant near my office, but I want to eat the combo platter, so I’ve been waiting until I have company. 

“I would like to eat these greens for my last meal,” I mumble around a mouthful. Josh gives a vague hum. I glance up at him, but he looks distracted. “Earth to Joshua. You okay?”

He jolts a little, then gives me an absent smile. “Yeah, I’m here, just…” He sets down the piece of bread he’s holding. “You’d tell me if you  _ didn’t  _ want me to stick up for you, right?”

It is a true testament to my love for Josh that I put down my bread. Ethiopian food is a top five favorite and I don’t get to have it that often. “I would tell you, yes.”

Josh blows out a breath. “I know I’m being weird, it’s just that… Remember when you told me that boys didn’t need defending but I actually did? I remember feeling  _ so good _ \--I mean, partially because it was a huge sign that you were into me, which was something I had been desperately hoping for--” I wrinkle my nose at him “--but also because nobody ever had, not really. But I think this is different--I’ve seen people try to talk for you, talk over you, and I don’t want to be that guy.”

I bump his knee with mine under the table until he focuses on me a little more clearly. “You’re not just ‘people,’ Josh. Us standing up for each other… It’s part of the deal.”

“You don’t just have to say it’s okay if it’s not okay.”

“Yes, because I famously have held my tongue when it comes to you.” My joke relaxes him a little. “But I will tell you if you ever cross the line from ‘supportive boyfriend’ into ‘mansplainer.’”

“Promise?”

“I promise, you goof. Now, let’s eat our guilt dinner.”

He makes a big show of scooping up a bite of greens. Midway through, his expression changes to genuine delight. “Oh shit, this is good.” 

I give him a fervent nod and then dig back in. Now that he knows it’s good, there’s competition. 


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a *lot* of Josh for this one, and I have played VERY fast and loose how actual businesses work, but I have a dream of putting Josh and Lucy in some *professional competition* and this is the ground work

Chapter Twenty-Six

Poor, sweet Amanda is actually excited about this weekend. I am trying not to dampen her youthful enthusiasm as we make our way out of the city in the new car I haven’t totally gotten the hang of yet, but I just feel very tired, and this is not my ideal Saturday. 

When I had told her, a few weeks ago, that we had to go to a trade event in Maryland, I had been apologetic. “I would do it alone if I could,” I had told her, “but I have to take about a billion meetings with reps from other presses, and some editors, and a whole mess of other people that work in various production lines, and I can’t do that  _ and  _ supervise the B&G table. We have other people coming, but they’re mostly editors, and they’ll have to be meeting with authors, so I’m sorry, but that means you.”

Amanda had shrugged her cool insouciant shrug. “Cool, sounds fun.”

And then, because I am an idiot, rather than running with this easy acceptance, I tried to convince her of the truth of this: it would not be fun. “I’m not sure you have an accurate image of what this is going to be like,” I had hedged. 

“Will there be free books?”

“Yes.”

“Will there be free booze?”

“Yes.”

Amanda had shrugged again. “That sounds like my idea of fun.”

It was then that I decided not to crush her spirit. The convention would do it for me. 

The first time I had gone to one of these as Helene’s assistant, I had been optimistic as well. And the first day  _ had  _ been kind of fun--talking to people who felt the same ways that I did about making books was a huge part of why I had gotten into the industry--but sometime between happy hour, dinner, and after-dinner drinks (publishing people could pack it in) actual fun had transformed into exhausting work that I had to masquerade as fun which was, frankly, miserable. 

I suspect that Amanda is in for a disappointing day, but hey! Maybe her seemingly larger capacity for fun will carry her through. 

At the moment, though, we are stuck in traffic leaving the city at the crack of dawn, which is enjoyable for neither of us. I am very carefully sipping at the large tea latte that I bought myself as a special “you have to work on the weekend” treat, because having to pee and being unable to get to an exit are a bad combo. 

“Thanks for the ride, by the way,” Amanda says as we inch over the bridge. “I went to this mixer for assistants in publishing last week, and basically everyone else who is going has to take the train, since almost nobody has a car, which apparently is a huge hassle? I got mega cred for having the considerate boss.”

I roll forward another few inches. “I was lucky enough to have a car basically the whole time I’ve been going to this, but I remember the year mine broke down. It was singularly hellish.”

Frankly, this is understating things. It had only been a few months before the merger, which had been announced, but not yet finalized, and so nobody knew if they had a job, for how long they had a job, and if going to this conference made any difference to the previous two questions. Because I worked for Helene, people thought I should know some of these answers, which I did not. Also, everyone was afraid that I might report things they said or did back to Helene, so I was not exactly their first choice when it came to looking for a carpool buddy. 

Then, my train had been late, I’d had to sprint for my connection, which had, due to an unexplained “incident” been relegated from an express to a local, which meant that I missed the conference-sponsored shuttle from the train station to the hotel, so I’d had to take an exorbitant taxi ride (which I couldn’t really afford, because my car was slowly sucking the life out of my savings), which accounts payable had ultimately refused to reimburse, because “you should have taken the free shuttle, Lucy.” 

So I had arrived frazzled, sweaty, broke, and on my last nerve. And  _ then  _ I’d had to work nonstop for two straight days. 

Despite the traffic, I am bolstered by this memory (it could be so, so much worse) and that I have turned my crappy assistant experiences into compassion for my own assistant, something I think managers lose too often. Maybe this is a little self-congratulatory but I am in traffic and you take what you can get. 

As we get closer to the end of the bridge, the traffic starts to thin, and Amanada asks if she can put on a pump-up playlist to celebrate. She has unsurprisingly great taste, and the songs flow into each other well, alternating poppy hits, classics that everyone knows, and things I like but don’t recognize. We’re able to pick up speed, and pass the drive companionably, gently bopping along to the music and making the occasional conversation. 

The drive goes pretty quickly after that. 

The spring air is crisp, and we spend a good chunk of the drive along the coast. Outside the window, the scenery melts from the greyscape of the mid-Atlantic, to the rocky beaches below the Mason-Dixon line. All told, it’s relatively idyllic and we make decent time. 

We arrive at the hotel with just enough time to check in--my room is on the seventh floor, Amanda’s on the fifth--and change quickly, before heading down to the conference area on the first two floors. I send Josh a quick selfie with my face scrunched up, and he texts back “give ‘em hell, Shortcake” along with a picture of his view: our kitchen table, and his breakfast spread. The photo includes just a slice of him--the edge of his face, a hint of his weekend lounge pants, and his forearm, reaching for his cup of coffee. It is in no way decidedly sexual and yet I find myself needing a deep breath. 

It is the last quiet moment I get to myself for a long while. 

I buzz from meeting to meeting, snatching cups of weak tea and bites of pastry in the spare moments in between. I speak on a panel about digitization projects before heading to more meetings. I am so busy that I scarcely know what’s coming up until it’s practically upon me, and am scarfing down a sandwich that I suspect is only okay, but which tastes fantastic due to how hungry I am, as I hurry into my next one. 

“Sorry I’m a few minutes late!” I exclaim as I enter the meeting room. My apology cuts into a grin when I see that my appointment--a tall, middle-aged woman with straight, graying hair--is, just like me, tucking a half-eaten sandwich back into one of the nondescript white boxes that the conference lunches came in. 

We both pause in what we’re doing. “Will you think me horribly unprofessional if I suggest we conduct our meeting over the rest of our lunches?”

“Actually, I think you’re a seasoned professional,” I counter, sinking into a chair across the small table. “Eating when you can is the key to these things.”

We, each in apparent relief, return to unpacking our little boxes. “You’re a veteran conventioner yourself, then.” This woman has an easy attitude that is a stark and welcome contrast from many of the harried and hyper-stressed junior editors I’d been talking to all morning. 

“I am,” I say, seizing my entry moment. “Lucy Hutton, COO at Bexley and Gamin.”

She takes my extended hand. “Melissa Pendergast, managing editor at Sanderson.”

I had known this meeting was coming, of course, but somehow in the hustle and bustle of my day, I had forgotten the precise  _ when  _ of it. “Oh of course! So nice to finally meet you.”

Because, technically speaking, we were competitors, I had heard of, but never before met, Melissa Pendergast, who was a long-term mainstay in the publishing industry. She had been at Sanderson for something like twenty years, and was one of the few people in the industry that nobody had a bad word for; she was known for being efficient, and kind, and reliable, and positively brilliant. Even Josh liked her. 

Meeting her felt a little like meeting a minor celebrity. 

She took a bite of her sandwich, wiped her mouth delicately. “Forgive me again if this is a little unprofessional--god, I’m two for two with you, aren’t I?--but it seems better to acknowledge our mutual acquaintance. Our financial manager speaks quite highly of you, which I hope you won’t mind me saying, even though we poached him from your company.” 

I laugh. I get why people like her. Her tone isn’t salacious or inappropriate, but she lets me know that she knows about my relationship with Josh in a way that doesn’t make me feel like I have to either hide or disclose it. Even though I have, strictly speaking, a higher level position than hers, she’s far more established than I am. Rather than make me feel uncomfortable about any power differential, she has smoothly flattened any sticking points between us, leaving an open playing field to get down to business. It’s effective, streamlined managing, and I can only aspire to be half as good someday. 

“Josh has a brilliant mind for business,” I acknowledge. “Really kept us all on our toes when he was at B&G. You’re lucky to have him.”

“Indeed we are. And,” she pushes her lunch to the side a little, and leans towards me, “it’s actually due to some of his work that I’ve scheduled this meeting with you today. We haven’t announced it yet, so you won’t have heard--” I know Josh has disclosed our relationship to Sanderson and has signed a document stating he won’t share any information with competitors, and me specifically, but I like that she doesn’t imply that he might have done so anyway “but we’re looking to sell our translation imprint, and I think Bexley and Gamin should buy it.”

I nearly choke on a mouthful of water. “Oh. My.” I take another sip of water to clear my throat. “I have to say that I did not expect that, but I am  _ definitely  _ eager to hear more.” 

Melissa runs me through the details. Basically, the literature in translation department--a small one at Sanderson, bigger at B&G--is a questionable moneymaker, but one that has been far more central to our brand than theirs. What Melissa is proposing--and I can absolutely feel Josh’s fingerprints all over this one--is that we buy out the whole imprint, which comes along with some well-known authors and (this is the sweetest part) some university contracts. What is so expensive to run for Sanderson will be cheaper for B&G, if we fold it into our existing department, and they’ll get an influx of cash that will help digitize their other, more flourishing imprints. If we can afford it, it will be a true win-win. My hand flies across the page, taking notes until I get a cramp. 

“We’ve come to you first, because we’d rather see it go to a mid-level like us than one of the giants. We also looked at Penumbra and ASR, but Penumbra doesn’t really do translation, and ASR mainly deals with older texts, the classics.” 

“If you don’t mind me asking, are you letting them know about the proposed sale?”

She smiles. “Not at present. We anticipate making a public announcement in about a month. Although, who knows? Maybe something will be ironed out by then.” 

When our meeting ends, I am practically vibrating. This has the potential to be huge. 

In our small corner of the publishing world, Bexley and (separately) Gamin were little fish, struggling to swim along; when we merged, it saved both companies. Being able to buy an imprint--and, hell, even being  _ considered  _ to buy an imprint, although I’m sure that part will never come to light if we don’t pull it off--would be a sign that the merger wasn’t just a last-ditch effort to save a sinking ship, but actually sound business. Mixed metaphors aside, it would show that we aren’t just surviving, but succeeding. Melissa says they haven’t determined exact numbers yet, but if we pull it off? What a coup. 

There’s nowhere in the convention hall that’s private enough to talk, so I text Josh. 

**Lucy Hutton:** Joshua Templeman you sly bastard!

He replies right away. 

**Joshua Templeman:** I’m guessing you talk to Mel?

**Lucy Hutton** : sure did and um HOLY SHIT

**Joshua Templeman:** you’re telling me. I rec’d the sale, but I wasn’t on the deciding talks of where to sell. Nearly lost it when they said you guys

**Joshua Templeman:** wish I could say that I was dying to tell you but keeping the secret was very fun actually

**Lucy Hutton:** traitor! I mean, good employee blah blah blah but traitor!

**Joshua Templeman:** you love it. And don’t think I’m going easy on you during negotiations, either

The phrase “work you so fucking hard” runs through my mind, and I give a little shiver. This is going to be  _ fun _ . 

***

When I meet Amanda for drinks, she looks relatively chipper, if a bit tired. I may have been running from meeting to meeting, but at least I got to sit down  _ during  _ the meetings. She would have been on her feet all day, working on the convention floor. 

“How’d it go?” I ask. I offer her my plate of snacks, and she snags a mini-quiche. The wine they have at tonight’s drinks event is slightly nicer than cheap, but what people don’t realize is that it’s always the food that goes first. 

“Pretty well. I was at the booth for maybe two thirds of the time, but Claire from Editorial relieved me for a while so that I could make the rounds, get sales catalogues, and grab some books. I got a couple of things that I thought you might like, too.”

“Ah, thanks!” I wasn’t too broken up about not being able to grab books this year--with my job, I generally have far more books than I could read--but I’m touched by the gesture. Besides, Amanda has good taste and generally knows what I like to read, since she sorts my mail, so I’m sure anything she grabbed is going to be worth a look. “My meeting load is lighter tomorrow, so I’ll take some time at the stand so you can do the whole network thing. The assistant’s lunch is worth it.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she says. “But--” she gives a hard blink and a little shake of her head “--somehow I think I had blocked out that we have to do the whole thing again tomorrow?”

“Ah,” I say, raising my glass for her to clink. “Now you’re a real pro.”

She places a faux-solemn hand over her heart. “I shall wear the dubious honor with pride.” 


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Hello, Lucy.” 

I jerk my attention away from the quarterly report I’m reading. Oh  _ hell  _ no. Why is Fat Little Dick standing in my office door?

“Mr. Bexley,” I say, then kick myself mentally. I have been trying to remember to call him Richard, because he is not my boss, and because it makes him look so annoyed every time I do. I get a sick pleasure out of knowing that he so clearly  _ wants  _ to tell me not to use his first name, but he can’t now that I’m an executive. “How can I help you?”

In the corner of my computer screen, a message from Amanda pops up.  _ Sorry, he snuck past me while I was in the bathroom!! I can fake an emergency call if you need, just send a smoke signal.  _

“You know people at Sanderson, right?”

Oh for fuck’s sake. This is going to be a  _ whole  _ thing. 

The word about the potential imprint purchase isn't _out_ , but it isn't quite _in_ anymore. Negotiations are ongoing over asking price. Nothing has been decided yet and the details are all very hush-hush, but Bexley seems to be clinging to the idea that somehow my relationship with Josh means that… well, I’m not sure what he thinks, but he seems to suspect that I have far greater power over the Sanderson executive board than I do, which is to say zero. 

I sit up straighter in my chair. “ _ You  _ know someone at Sanderson, Richard.”  _ Ha.  _ Snuck it in there. Bexley looks like he tastes something sour. “That’s where Joshua Templeman transferred when he left B&G.”

“But you have a  _ personal  _ relationship with him, isn’t that right?”

One time, during a meeting, I saw Bexley go to take a sip of coffee and miss. He splashed it all over his face. He didn’t think anyone saw, but I totally saw. I picture that now. 

“I’m not really sure how that’s relevant to our relationship to the company,” I reply in the primmest of prim voices. I think the coffee had been pretty hot, too, that day. He’d been a little pink after mopping at his face. It could have been embarrassment rather than temperature-based injury, but I could find enjoyment in that, too. “I’m sure whatever you need could be better accomplished by working your contacts.” I begin to turn back to my computer. 

One of the best side benefits of my promotion is that I now see Richard Bexley far, far less frequently than I used to. A close second is that it is not virtually impossible for him to fire me, and  _ literally  _ impossible for him to fire me without ending up with a whole bunch of work that he’d rather not do landing in his lap. Josh has encouraged me to use this as an opportunity to give Bexley the level of respect he deserves. To say that Bexley does not enjoy this dramatic scale down from my previous level of deferential niceness would be an understatement. He still gets confused every time we talk and he discovers anew that I won’t just roll over and give him what he wants. 

If he weren’t such a dick, I’d almost feel bad for the guy. 

Bexley coughs a surprised little cough at my dismissal. “I just--” He coughs again. “Well surely you know that their centennial party is coming up this week. And, well, if you planned to attend.”

_ Oh.  _ Oh this is objectively funny. He wasn’t invited. 

I  _ was  _ going, actually; I’d been invited professionally, since it was a significant industry event, somewhere between a celebration and “take that, suckers, we’re still here and rich enough to throw a party!” Plus, of course, I was going as Josh’s plus-one. 

“I do.” I smile at him sweetly. “It promises to be quite the night. But if you’re busy, rest assured that Bexley and Gamin will be represented.” And then, because I am a true monster, I add, “Helene said she was planning on attending, as well.” 

For a moment, Bexley and I make eye contact in perfect understanding. He knows I’m screwing with him. He knows I’m not going to help him. And, unless I’m really deluding myself, he might even respect me for it a little. 

“Right,” he harrumphs. “Well, good. For the company, and all. Since I’m busy.” And then he leaves. 

He mumbles some sort of half-greeting to Amanda, and a few seconds later, another message from her pops up.  _ That was incredible. Truly masterful.  _

I laugh a little, and then text Josh. 

**Lucy Hutton:** Whoever made the list for the centennial party either made a huge oversight or really hate FLD

**Lucy Hutton:** guess which option I’m choosing to believe? 

**Joshua Templeman:** am I...actually looking forward to this party now?

This makes me laugh even harder. At this moment, I really, truly love my job. 

***

For Friday night’s party, I am home, about three-quarters of the way through getting glammed up when Josh rushes through the front door. “Oh hi, Shortcake,” he says, hurrying into the bathroom and turning on the shower. “You look great?” He sheds clothes as he goes. 

I turn my back to the mirror as he steps into the shower. “While I have no real objection to how  _ you  _ look right now--” he gives me an exaggerated wink through the glass and begins to shampoo his hair, which,  _ honestly  _ “--you do realize that we have to leave in like...eighteen minutes. I assumed I was going to meet you there.”

“I’ll be fast,” he assures me. 

“God help me, that is unfair,” I remark to the ceiling. And then I have to leave the bathroom, because the steam is going to start to make my hair frizz, and eighteen minutes will not be enough to do repairs. 

I finish my makeup in the mirror in the hallway. I’m barely done when Josh emerges twelve minutes later, looking frankly incredible in a dark suit, his hair freshly washed, dried, and combed away from his face. “ _ So  _ unfair,” I grouse. 

He curls a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a light kiss on the cheek. We’ve been out together enough times that he knows a considerable amount of dressing-up work goes into a fancy-night-out look. I appreciate his efforts to avoid mussing things. “I couldn’t let you show me up too much there, Shortcake.”

I roll my eyes. “Flatterer.”

Josh gives me what can only be described as a truly over-the-top wink. 

I’ve been to Sanderson a few times, and while it’s nice, it has always struck me as a relatively innocuous office space. They’ve done something really nice with their atrium space tonight, doing it up in such a way that it feels like it was made for a party, instead of corporate convenience. 

Josh snags me a flute of champagne and we make the rounds, doing the professional-obligation dance that’s compounded by our different departments, which means that we have overlapping but not identical contacts to touch base with tonight. We orbit in and out of each other’s conversations as we need to, as he talks to some financial guys from ASR, and I salute Helene from across the room and joke with an editor from Penguin that I’ve worked with in the past. 

We have a long conversation with Melissa Pendergast that’s the kind of half-fun, half-business that characterizes these events. She regales us with a truly very funny story about her teenage son’s hockey team that has me struggling to stay within the polite limits of laughter, and even has Josh chuckling a little. When he starts to laugh, Mel snaps her fingers and points at him in triumph. “I got you, Josh!” Then she gives me a faux-conspiratorial wink. “He’s Mr. Serious, but eeeeeeeevery so often, you can crack through that tough exterior.” 

Josh forces a serious expression back on his face as I giggle. “I’m impressed and frankly a little jealous,” I say to Melissa. “It took me  _ forever  _ to break him down.” 

Melissa pretends to give her sleek grey hair a flip, her face wryly self-mocking. She really is good at finding the line between being professional and being super boring at parties. “I am a seasoned manager. You learn how to break people with time.”

“If the two of you don’t stop laughing,” Josh comments dryly, “people are going to start thinking I’m not a robot. Please don’t reveal my secrets to the populace.” 

“I’ll take it to the grave,” I intone solemnly. 

“Speaking of the populace,” Mel pivots seamlessly into full professional talk. “There are a number of people I want you to meet, Lucy, since we’re going to be all working together in the next few months.” 

I hand off my little plate, long since emptied of snacks, to a passing waiter with a nod of thanks so that I have one hand free to shake. Josh follows us around, taking a backseat to Melissa’s professional authority, not hiding our relationship, but not throwing it in people’s faces either. If a few people look at him a little sideways during the introductions, it’s not overly obvious, but when he notices, he gives a small smile that seems to visibly pain him. Consistent thing. But mostly, people seem to treat the sale like it’s Josh and Mel’s baby, looking at them both with either admiration or nervousness, depending on how concerned they are about keeping their jobs. I try to be friendly and encouraging without making any promises. The sale isn’t a done deal yet, but it’s looking more and more likely and more and more like it’s going to mostly work through my office. After the B&G merger, I know the tension and fear that comes with a move like this, and while I want to save as many jobs as possible, but I am so far from being able to guarantee anything that to imply anything at all would be cruel. 

I shake enough hands that they all start to meld together. 

“Oh!” Melissa exclaims, indicating for me to turn around. “Here, Lucy, this is one of the junior editors for the imprint--”

“Val,” I say, stunned. “Hi.”

For a minute, it does not compute how I could possibly not have known that Val Stone got a job at Sanderson, but I suppose it makes sense. She all but blacklisted me after the merger, and while Josh knows the whole sad saga of how I got dumped by a work friend over something I couldn’t control, but I doubt I ever expressly mentioned Val’s name to him, let alone in such a way that would lead him to connect my Val with the Val Stone who worked at a minor imprint in his massive corporation. 

“Lucy,” Val says. I absolutely cannot read anything in her face, her tone. It seems insane that I once knew her so well. I feel like I’m talking to a stranger, or a character I’ve only ever seen on television. “I heard you were involved with the purchase.” Her eyes flicker over my shoulder and I realize that Josh has come to stand behind me. Something changes in her expression, but I can’t read that either. 

“Yeah,” I say. “Nothing is decided yet but we’re all very excited.”

We are both being so perfectly cordial. 

I have to believe that Mel is choosing to ignore the tension rather than being oblivious to it, but she is graciousness personified, so she smiles and says, “Oh great, you already know each other.” 

Val’s eyes flick to Melissa, then back to me. “I worked with Lucy at Gamin, before they combined with Bexley.” 

This one I can read. She’s still pissed. 

“Great talent coming out of that company these days,” Melissa says cheerfully. “I need to have a word with their personnel manager, apparently, find out all her secrets.” 

“Don’t you dare,” I threaten, half-jokingly. 

“What happened to professional cooperation?” she shoots back. Then her gaze moves behind me and her smile becomes just the tiniest bit forced, which, from her, is a sign of great distress. It occurs to me that she and Josh have a lot in common, in an inverted sort of way. What he masks with seriousness she masks with joviality. “Sorry to introduce and then bolt, but my boss is making some very serious gestures in my direction.” She sighs a little baby sigh. “We all have someone we answer to. If you’ll excuse me, folks.” She gives us each a little nod, and then leaves. 

And suddenly things get very, very awkward. 

As is my wont, I try to smother the awkwardness with niceness. “You’ve moved up to editor--congrats! That’s what you always wanted, right?” I smile broadly, but it feels very, very wrong. 

It also, apparently was a very, very dumb thing to say. “Well, it’s not an executive position, but then again, starting over at a new company takes time.” She says all this through a razor-sharp, brittle smile. 

Josh stiffens behind me, but I know he won’t say anything. He can’t, really, not at a work event where he is technically Val’s superior, if not up her direct chain of command. 

I feel like I have fallen into the twilight zone. Val looks exactly the same--her ash-blonde hair is a little longer than it used to be, but she has the same cat’s-eye glasses, which emphasizes her bold eyeliner. Maybe, I think, her blacklisting me after she lost her job was a good thing. It sucks to see her look at me like she hates me. But this is not the place or the time to get into it--or to burst into tears, which also feels appealing at this moment--so I just say, “Thanks,” even though what she said was clearly not intended as a compliment. 

“Funny thing how it looks like my job is in your hands once again.” The snark in her tone is a challenge that I ignore. 

“Hopefully things will turn out in a way that works for everyone, no matter what happens,” I say, that idiotic smile still pasted on my face. I am also not blind to the fact that it is deeply stupid. These things never turn out in a way that works for everyone. Val can’t even pretend that it isn’t dumb; she scoffs derisively into her glass of wine. 

This conversation needs to end, otherwise either Josh is going to explode from holding himself back, I’m going to cry, or Val is going to punch me in the face. We all stand, frozen in our tension for one beat longer than feels natural, but fortunately, Josh emerges as the coolest head. 

“Well, I am about ready to think about calling it a night, but I need to grab something from my office before I try to slip away. Lucinda, care to accompany me?” My nod feels shaky, and Josh puts a respectable, but still comforting, arm around my shoulder. “Excellent. Val, good to see you as always. Have a great weekend.” 

Val’s expression is barely above a sneer as she looks between me and Josh, as if my relationship with someone in her company is another wrong that I have dealt her. “Yeah, you too, Josh.” 

It is presumably intentional that she leaves me out. I don’t even care. I’m just glad this conversation is over. 

We’re close enough to the back of the room that we’re able to slip quietly towards the elevator, Josh’s arm a gentle, guiding presence. When the elevator doors close, shutting us in our own private little space, away from prying eyes, I let my shoulders slump. 

Josh jabs a button. “Well,  _ that  _ was unprofessional.” 

I jerk my head around to look at him. “I thought I did okay.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Not you, her. You were perfectly  _ nice _ .” He says it like it’s a swear. “I mean, you were obviously uncomfortable as hell, but you did the polite thing and pretended you didn’t. She  _ scoffed at you _ . Like a moody teenager.”

“Well,” I hedge, because despite everything I still wish that the friendship hadn’t exploded so spectacularly. “It’s not like we don’t have a history.”

Josh raises a sardonic eyebrow. “Goodness, Shortcake, how many hostile publishing affairs have you  _ had?  _ You have a type.”

I chuckle, which was obviously his intent, and nudge him with my shoulder. “Very funny, you dope.” 

He gives a melodramatic sigh. “Way to kick a man while he’s down. First I find out that I am merely your latest combative conquest, and now I am a dope. What an evening this is turning out to be.” He gives his head a sad shake. “Woe, woe betides to me--”

The elevator opens on his floor and I am laughing madly. “Did you really need something from your office?”

“I needed to get us out of there, which technically includes my office.”

“I love you.”

His smile is soft and fond and blinding. “Want to see it anyway?”

“Sure.” I’ve never been in Josh’s office before, although I have something of a mental picture, based on what he’s told me and his past work habits. I wonder how well it matches with reality. 

The floor is deserted, so we meander hand-in-hand down a nice but still pretty corporate-looking hallway, until we come to a door at the end. “This is the whole finance department,” he explains, gesturing towards the offices. 

“How much do you hate having to walk past everyone every day?”

He locks eyes with me. “So much. God, you get me.”

“Experience,” I reply pertly. 

Josh unlocks a door that leads to an office that I think is about as big as mine, but feels bigger, probably because he hasn’t cluttered his shelves with nearly so many books. The overall decor is more masculine wood than I had pictured, possibly due to the shiny holdover image from his desk at B&G. It is, of course, impossibly neat, with only a few of those sleek black document holders, each neatly labelled in Josh’s blocky handwriting, on the shelves. He stands in the doorway, watching me take it all in. 

His desk is nearly empty: there’s a sleek computer; a cup full of identical black pens--the kind I know he prefers; a simple black planner, like the one he had at B&G. I tap it with my index finger and give him a little smile. He shrugs. “I got in the habit of doing it on paper.” 

The one surprise is a single framed photo. I turn it around. “It’s me,” I say, faintly surprised, not so much that I’m the subject of the photo, but that it’s here, at all. It’s the shot he took of me on my birthday; I’m backlit, my hair wild, my smile big. I’m squinting one eye against the sun, and I’m only half turned towards him, one hand brushing a curl out of my face. It’s a good photo. I am touched in a way that I can’t describe, seeing it. 

Josh looks a little bashful. “You looked so beautiful that day,” he says, coming around the desk to sit in his desk chair. 

I lean against the desk. “I can’t believe you printed it out and put it in your office.” I rest one fingertip on the frame’s corner. 

“I like looking at you.” 

But when I turn to face him, he’s looking at the real me, not the photo. 

I  _ do  _ know what to call what it feels like when he looks at me like that. 

“Mr. Templeman,” I say playfully and his eyes flash at me. “Did you lure me up here to get me all alone?”

Even sitting, he is able to grab me around the waist and lift me effortlessly to sit on the desk. This move does exciting things to my lower belly. He wheels his chair forward until he is sitting between my legs. He’s tall enough that this still puts us almost face-to-face. 

“So what if I did?” His voice has a rough edge of challenge to it. I bite my lower lip briefly, and his gaze darts to my mouth. 

“Dangerous,” I chide. 

“Worth it,” he corrects. 

It isn’t like in the movies; we don’t tear at each other’s clothes or dash things to the floor. Instead, we are both aware that we have to return to the party below, and that we both have professional reputations to protect, and so we are very, very careful. Somehow, that makes things even hotter. 

Josh cups one hand around the back of my neck, fingertips just grazing but not mussing my hair; the other, he puts on my knee, his thumb stroking the inside, his other fingers playing with the hem of my dress. I slip one finger under the wrap of his tie, the other clutching the edge of the desk for balance and, frankly, self-control. 

Our kisses are gentle but heartfelt. I feel giddy, like a teenager. There’s a heady pleasure in kissing that can’t go any further. I wonder if this is what all those Regency-era heroines are all about, the yearning that is tempered by circumstance. Josh runs his tongue across the seam of my lips and I am so heated up that I could die a little. We are barely moving beyond our hands and mouths and it makes me want more, more, more. 

“Shit, god, fuck, Shortcake,” Josh pants when it all becomes just a little too much. He has a smudge of my lipstick on his mouth. 

“Kill me now,” I respond. His head thunks forward to rest on my shoulder. 

“Do you think,” he asks, his voice a little muffled, “that just once, when we go out, you could try to look a little less gorgeous? It’s been months since I’ve gone to an event that isn’t an exercise in torture.” 

“Next time, I’ll just wear, like, a potato sack.” Being very soundly kissed makes me inclined to be agreeable. 

“A very large one?” he asks hopefully. 

“Sure. And under it, just a caftan.” 

“Perfect,” he agrees. 

He smiles up at me, and I wipe the smudge of lipstick off his face with my thumb. Before I pull my hand away, he grabs it, and presses a kiss to the center of my palm. “Ready to say goodbye to people and then head home?”

“Well.” His glance darts down at his lap and then up at me. “Two minutes?”

I laugh. “I probably should fix my lipstick anyway.” I begin to rummage through my purse, but Josh puts out a hand to stop me. 

“It looks fine and--” he makes a vague and yet deeply evocative gesture “--watching you do that will not help the situation. In fact…” He looks around. “I did not consider that I am going to have to be able to do work in here. This was poorly planned.” 

I am properly cracking up now. “I will try the ladies’ room, then, while you deal with your...situation.” I throw him a saucy wink over my shoulder as I leave his office. 

He groans. “Seriously. Next time. Potato sack.” 


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw for alcohol use (aka in which Josh gets drunk, it isn't unhappy drinking, but just a warning in case it is sensitive for anyone!)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“This is archaic,” Josh complains. “I get female bonding and all, but men like babies! This whole idea is predicated on the idea that men don’t like babies! And that means that women end up doing all the work when it comes to babies! This is a failure of feminism.”

I look at him over the back of the couch. “I cannot tell you how heartily I do not recommend you telling your very pregnant sister-in-law that her baby shower is a failure of feminism.” 

“Obviously not. I’m going to tell Patrick. Giving off the impression that you don’t like babies is a weird way to go right before you are  _ due to have a baby _ .”

“Do  _ you  _ like babies?” I ask with an arched eyebrow. “Because right now you are giving off the impression that you do but--I can’t lie to you--you are going about it in a weird way.”

He spreads his hands helplessly. “How would I know? I’m a younger sibling, and everybody always hands babies off to girls and women! That is the whole problem I am describing here, Shortcake.” 

I slump back onto the couch. “I wish I could solve gender parity for you, Josh.” 

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles. “Who doesn’t like babies? They’re cute, they’re our future, it’s a whole thing.” 

“Not that I am not generally speaking on board with your whole approach here, but is this actually about the baby shower or about spending the day with your dad and Patrick?”

“Fine question! Couldn’t tell you. Let’s go with both.”

I can’t entirely blame him for being nervous. This is the first big chunk of time that they’ll all be spending together post-Anthony’s-near-death-experience-state-of-my-life reckoning. Also, I truly do not understand what dudes do when they all hang out together. My dad and Josh like to talk about strawberries, but that can’t be widespread. If they were women, they could just sit around and chat, but I think that breaks some kind of bro code or something. 

Men are so fucking weird. 

To be fair, it can’t be entirely based in gender, because I am also slightly nervous about spending the whole day with Elaine and Mindy without a Josh buffer for the first time. 

My thing should have better food, though. Say what you will about Mindy Templeman, but the woman throws a classy event. Even the invitations were so cute I could hardly handle it. 

We load our present, expertly wrapped by Josh (“Let me try!” I had asked, sticking my eager little paws in his workspace. “Shortcake, I beg of you. Let this go. You are a bad present-wrapper. The world will go on.”). It’s a changing table--purchased off their registry, because we aren’t monsters--with a note inside that reads, “Josh will also come back and build this for you, because we know Patrick sucks at it. We just couldn’t figure out how to transport it built. As a bonus present, Josh will also build anything else that needs building, because we want your baby to be safe. DO NOT TRUST YOUR HUSBAND WITH THIS. Love, Josh and Lucy.” 

(Unsurprisingly, I did not write this note. In fact, I had not been completely certain that this was the tone to take with an expecting father. “Are you sure you want to go quite this hostile?” I’d asked. 

“Yes.” Josh taped the note to the box with evident delight. 

“You seem to...vaguely imply that the baby will be in mortal peril if Patrick builds this. That seems a little dark.”

“A man should be able to embrace his own limitations, Lucinda. I wouldn’t trust Patrick to set up a folding chair.”

It seemed like a battle I wasn’t going to win. I didn’t have siblings and I couldn’t even pretend to understand the clear enjoyment that Josh and Patrick seemed to get out of tormenting one another.)

When we get to Patrick and Mindy’s building, we find Patrick and Anthony waiting on the stoop. Anthony looks better than I’ve seen him look since before the heart attack. Patrick looks dopily cheerful. 

“We’ve been banished!” he crows, raising his arms into the air in triumph when he sees his brother. “Hiya, Lucy.”

“Hey there, Patrick,” I say. 

“Your brother,” Anthony informs Josh in a dry tone so like his son’s that it’s almost uncanny, “has the alcohol tolerance of a teenage girl.”

“I haven’t been drinking because my wife’s pregnant!” 

“It’s three in the afternoon.” Josh seems like he isn’t sure whether to blame Patrick or Anthony for this. 

“Mindy’s mom scares me!” Patrick says this in the exact same tone of perfect joy with which he has said everything else so far. 

“It’s been a weird couple of hours,” Anthony tells us. “He has had two of the fruity drinks that your mom has been mixing up for the party. The boy is quite the lightweight.” He claps Patrick affectionately on the shoulder. 

“If my mom is mixing,” Josh tells me, “it’s actually possible that the drinks are just deadly. She’s got a hell of a pour.”

“Noted,” I say, while Anthony nods. 

“I can’t believe I’m going to have a  _ baby _ ,” Patrick comments to the sky. “A baby! A real human baby!” 

Josh already looks like his day has been one thousand hours long. “Okay. Listen. I’m going to carry this present upstairs. Dad, keep Doctor Drunk out here. Patrick, if you puke in my car, I will kill you. Luce, ready to go up?”

“Tell Mindy I said she looks  _ so pretty _ ,” Patrick says earnestly. Anthony drops his head into his hands. 

“I got ya, bud,” I assure Patrick, doing my best to keep from cracking up. He gives me a double thumbs-up. 

Josh hefts up the heavy package and I almost stumble for a moment because,  _ muscles,  _ and then we go inside. “I will pay you one thousand dollars to switch places with you today,” he offers once we’re in the elevator. 

“Mm, no,” I say, still ogling him shamelessly. 

He glances down at me. “I will make good on whatever thought you have running through your sick little mind there, Horny Eyes.”

“More tempting, but still no.”

“Damn.” 

Mindy’s door is propped open. We peek in and then enter. “No boys!” shouts a shrill voice that attests to the strength of Elaine’s pour. Josh ignores this and heads for his mother, who is fussing over a delicious-looking--called it!--buffet spread. 

“Hey, mom,” he greets. “Where can I put this?” 

“Oh, my sweet boy, hello. Lucy, love, good to see you.” I accept her cheek kiss. “Presents in the nursery, Josh. Then please go have fun with your brother. If he doesn’t loosen up a bit, his wife is going to kill him in his sleep.” 

Josh eyes his mother. “Are you telling me to get Patrick drunk? This feels like questionable parenting…” 

Elaine gives him a playful smack on the shoulder even though he is  _ still  _ holding a very heavy box. “Joshua Templeman, you are thirty years old. My work with you is done. But yes. Well, technically, Patrick is already drunk, but yes. Tell your father I said he has to be the driver.” 

“This is the weirdest damn day,” Josh remarks. 

“Don’t swear. And go.” 

Josh drops off the present, gives me a quick kiss goodbye, and leaves just as Mindy enters the room and says, “Oh Lucy, thank god!” 

I am flattered. I didn’t think Mindy and I were the ‘thank god!’ kind of friends...or even necessarily fully friends, even though I definitely like her more every time we talk. 

Mindy is  _ very  _ pregnant. She still looks very elegant, but her face now has some of that sweet roundness that wasn’t there earlier in her pregnancy. Her maternity dress is cute but clearly made for comfort and she’s wearing full-on slippers, for which I applaud her. 

“Hey, Mindy!” I call back. “Congrats again!” 

She brushes this aside. “Oh thanks, thanks. I’m so glad you’re here. I have something to show you in the bedroom.” And then she loops her arm through mine and then basically drags me away from Elaine, who looks on, amused. Pregnancy has made Mindy almost superhumanly strong. I have the faintest impression that I am being kidnapped. 

“What’s up?” I ask after she had pulled us into the bedroom and shut the door with perhaps more force than is necessary. “What did you need me to see?”

She slumps on the bed. “Oh, nothing actually. Well, I guess I needed you to not see me murder my sister.” She tilts her head up; I can barely see her over the bump of her stomach. “I hate everyone, Lucy. I am so pregnant, and I hate everyone.”

“Can I help with that?”

She shakes her head against the mattress. “No, I mean, yes, you can just be a normal person--” she rolls onto her side “--which you are. But be advised, if you utter the words ‘gender reveal party,’ I will not be held accountable for the violence I commit.”

I perch on the edge of the bed next to her. “The decor out there is very heavily blue, so I assumed that ship had sailed.”

“It has!” she wails. “For one, Patrick is a doctor. He knows how to read a sonogram. It was never going to be a secret or a surprise or whatever you want to call it. For another, I do not need to drag my pregnant ass into a fancy outfit for  _ another  _ party. But my sister won’t let up! Like, for Christ’s sake, Joanne, gender is a construct! Find out the sex, pick a name, and move on with your life! The kid will  _ tell you  _ if you need to worry about it more.” 

This rant seems to have gotten away from her a little. “Rock on, Mindy,” I reassure her. “The Templemans coming at it with the feminism today.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah, Josh was espousing a theory about men being invited to like babies and parity in domestic labor this morning.”

“Huh,” she says. “Still waters, right? I mean, he’s totally got a point, but it was a fight I was never going to win with my mom and sister and also’’--she shrugs as well as she is able while lying down-- “Patrick’s head is maybe going to explode if he doesn’t chill out. He has been  _ very  _ attentive, which is sweet, but also, dude, I am going to need you to take a breath. He  _ has  _ been giving me infinite back rubs, though, which, no complaints.”

I turn and prop on my elbow so I can face her more easily. “I have been derelict in my duty, actually. Patrick really wanted me to assure you that you look  _ very pretty  _ today. He was quite emphatic on that point.” 

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes but smiles. “That sweet, dumb, drunk idiot. I basically had to shove that first drink down his throat.” 

“He may actually break Josh’s brain today.” 

Mindy is laughing and points a finger at me. “You just wait until you and Josh have a kid! He’s twice as intense as Patrick.” I freeze a little but she doesn’t notice. “God, listen to me.  _ If  _ you have a kid. Sorry, I’ve turned into one of those horrible breeders who assumes everybody wants to have children.” 

“No, it’s fine,” I say. 

We both take a breath, and then Mindy speaks again. “Listen, I could probably have more finesse than this, but I have pregnancy brain and I claim that as my excuse. We have never really hashed out that this is sort of weird!” 

“It’s sort of weird,” I agree. 

She props herself up a little higher against some pillows. “Okay, I am dreading going back to that party still, so I am just gonna say it all, and if you want to bolt, feel free. I absolutely cannot chase you. But I’d like for us to be friends.” 

“Me too,” I say, and mean it. I feel a weird mixture of tension and relief at knowing we’re going to finally talk about this thing we’ve been dancing around. I suspect there’s no way out of the awkwardness but through. 

“So here’s the whole deal. Josh and I were not great together. But I had just been through a few short-term relationships and like a million dates and I was just so  _ tired  _ of it all. And you don’t know my mom and sister--I mean, you will, in like twenty minutes, and then I think you’ll see where I’m coming from--but they are very much the ‘get married! Have a baby! That’s what’s important’ kind of people.”

I say another quiet missive of thanks that I have the greatest parents of all time. 

Mindy continues. “And dating Josh was just...very easy. I mean, at first. He is--I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this--a very handsome man, and he never bailed on plans or anything. And so at first it didn’t matter that he was this sort of tough nut. I literally never knew what was going on inside his head.”

“I can relate,” I murmur, thinking back to those early months. 

“I really...wanted to love him, if that makes sense? And we were both just stuck in this dance of hoping we would start to like each other more than we actually did. And that started to feel unsustainable, and probably I should have just broken up with him then, but it had been so long at that point that honestly? I was just kind of embarrassed. And so I reached out to Patrick as this sort of last-ditch effort to see if I could figure out what was up with this serious, unknowable giant I had been seeing and then…” She shrugs. “The rest is history. And I can’t regret it, because I love that dope so much, but I  _ am  _ sorry that I hurt Josh. And I  _ am  _ sorry that it makes things awkward between him and Patrick and between me and Josh and between me and you, because…” She starts to tear up because hormones are a trip and then  _ I  _ start to tear up, because I am a sympathy crier. “...because we’re family, you know?” 

Now we are both blinking furiously. “Damn, Mindy, I did not expect to be crying at this event. My mascara isn’t waterproof.” 

Her laugh is a little wet sounding. “I wear  _ exclusively  _ waterproof mascara these days, because I am basically just a human hormone machine. But seriously, from an outside third-party observer who admittedly has a super weird level of insider insight… You two are the real deal. And I know you know, but I figure it might be nice to hear anyway. And I hope this conversation didn’t make you hate me because I really want us to be friends!”

“I’m gonna hug you,” I tell her. 

“I mean, good luck!” she exclaims, gesturing at her stomach and wiping her eyes. 

The hug is, frankly, terrible, and ends in us kind of falling on the bed and dissolving into helpless laughter. And, just like that, all the last shreds of awkwardness is gone. We have almost gotten our giggling under control when something occurs to me and I start up again. 

“What?” Mindy asks.

“Josh is gonna  _ hate  _ this.” I can barely get it out. I am half-drunk on the giddy fun of friendship. I’ll admit that it came to me in an unexpected way--but hell, what else is new when it comes to life with me and Josh and all the other Templemans? This is  _ exactly  _ what I needed, doubly so on the heels of that awkward encounter with Val. I missed having a woman friend. 

When we finally  _ actually  _ get ourselves under control, Mindy heaves a happy sigh. “Oh man, I guess I should get out there. Also, it’s been a full fifteen minutes, so I have to pee again. David likes to sit on my bladder.” She heaves herself to her feet. 

“David?” I ask, pressing my hands to my chest. This is new news to me. 

Mindy points a stern finger at me. “No. I positively forbid you from starting to cry again. I am going to leave before you set me off.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” I give her a mock salute. 

She laughs. “So weird. I love it.”

The rest of the shower is fun. I eat about a million delicious tiny snacks but stop after one of Elaine’s fruity cocktails which are delicious and sweet, but strong enough to fell a horse. I gain some respect for Patrick’s tolerance. I converse mainly with Elaine and Mindy, although I do get caught in a long conversation with Mindy’s sister--who, I agree, is a  _ lot _ \--about all the party games she thinks Mindy should have had and, yes, the missed opportunity of a gender reveal party. 

“So you’re the one who is dating Mindy’s ex, right? The hot, mean brother?”

“God help me, Joanne,” Mindy says at this, coming up behind me with surprising stealth considering how uneasily she moves at this point. “I may be pregnant, but keep it up, and I will find a creek to dunk you in, adults or no.” 

“Take a joke, Min,” Joanne says snidely.

“I will end your life,” Mindy says mildly. 

“You know, every time I think I can’t like you any more than I do, you get more awesome,” I inform Mindy. 

“Yeah, Joanne,” Mindy says. “Female solidarity. Suck it.” 

And then we have to walk away, because we are laughing again. 

It is a few hours later and most of the guests have left when I take a break from helping Elaine clean up--and from continually  _ stopping  _ Mindy from helping, which takes everything short of tying her to the armchair--when I check my phone to see that I have like thirty messages from Josh. For a second, a hot stab of anxiety shoots through me, before I realize that I don’t have any missed calls, just dozens of texts.

Oh my god, I realize. Josh is  _ drunk _ . 

Hilarious. 

**Joshua Templeman:** Oh my god Shortcake I hope you are having a better time than I am because Patrick is killing me

**Joshua Templeman:** I get why Mindy banished him. I am learning so many disturbing facts about pregnancy

**Joshua Templeman:** I realize this is inconsistent with my previous comments re: men and babies but that was before I heard the term “mucus plug” 

**Joshua Templeman:** it was a different time, this morning. I was a different man

**Joshua Templeman:** as soon as he said it, my dad bought me a beer. I think this was the first time? He’s getting soft

**Joshua Templeman:** okay i feel bad for saying that he is being nice 

**Joshua Templeman:** lucy this is patrick how is my wife?????????

**Joshua Templeman:** sorry, Shortcake, things have gotten weird we are at a sports bar

**Joshua Templeman:** my dad invented a drinking game where I have to take a sip of beer every time patrick says ‘my wife’ and i am gonna die maybe it is an unfair game because my dad is drinking lemonade 

**Joshua Templeman:** LEMONAHDE ahahah he just said ‘i habe been convinced sugar is ok in moderation’

**Joshua Templeman:** we finally got some food so things have very slightly stabilized but mostly still no i am drunk i haven been this drunk since college i think 

**Joshua Templeman:** p says i am being so uncool texting you so much and that you’re gonna get a cooler boyfriend but i said nah its ok she loves me and dad said it’s not like i have another brother and we all laughed so i guess that’s a thing we laugh about now 

**Joshua Templeman:** i’m not worried 

**Joshua Templeman:** unless you hate drunk guys i have to close one eye to type 

**Joshua Templeman:** na i thought about it and decided it’s still ok you helped me when i was sick that was nice 

**Joshua Templeman:** you love me haha so embarrassing its oka i love you too and i was first 

**Joshua Templeman:** i feel like i GET patrick now you ARE so pretty we SHOULD SAy it all the time

**Joshua Templeman:** we should eat artichokes fnch for dinner

**Joshua Templeman:** finch

**Joshua Templeman:** frinch

**Joshua Templeman:** French like the country

**Joshua Templeman:** you get it

**Joshua Templeman:** shooooooortcake are you having fun?? I miss you

**Joshua Templeman:** Hello Lucy, this is Anthony Templeman. Joshua and Patrick are both drunk. I accept the blame for not teaching them how to hold their alcohol. They are both fine. They are having a great time. But I have confiscated his phone because truly they are both embarrassing themselves and men should have some secrets. If you see this before Mindy, please encourage her to delete all the messages on her phone before she reads them. If not, tell her I know a good divorce lawyer and that nobody in the family will blame her. Have Elaine call me if you need to get a message to my idiot younger son. Enjoy the party. 

This last message is from about an hour ago. 

“Uh, Mindy?” I call, barely keeping my laughter under control. “Have you checked your phone recently? I have good reason to suspect you have some deeply hilarious messages from your drunk husband.” 

“I dropped it a few hours ago in the bedroom and it’s so hard to bend down to the floor that I just gave up.”

“Want me to grab it for you?”

“Please, thanks.”

I find it lying a few feet away from the night stand. When I pick it up, the front screen lights up and says she has a full  _ forty seven  _ text messages, as well as three voicemails. 

In a day full of deeply entertaining moments, watching Mindy read all those messages is still a top contender. “My god,” she mutters. Then, a few minutes later, “ _ god _ . Half of these are weird pregnancy facts, which, dude, I am pregnant, I know. The other half are increasingly odd compliments.” Then, eventually, she lowers the phone and looks at Elaine and me with wide eyes. “Oh my  _ god,  _ Anthony ate  _ dessert _ .” 

“He is the only man on earth who we had to convince to eat  _ less _ healthy after a heart attack,” Elaine comments dryly. 

“I was surprised at lemonade,” I say. “Dessert is huge.”

“This is like...through the rabbit hole of text messages. I can’t remember the last time Patrick got drunk. Actually--” I don’t miss the swift glance down at her stomach.

“Thank you for that information,” I deadpan. Mindy blushes. 

Elaine has retrieved her phone while Mindy and I engaged in this delightful repartee. 

“I have only one message, which reads, ‘our sons are idiots, back soon’ from about fifteen minutes ago. So much for long term romance!” 

“I suspect he had his hands fuller than he expected,” I offer diplomatically. 

She gives me an affectionate wink. “I’m just joking, I’d much rather he spend time with the boys. God knows I’ve nagged him to do it enough. And anyway, I’ve been married to the man for thirty-five years and I only just managed to get him to stop signing ‘Anthony Templeman’ to all his texts.” 

Elaine and I have made a solid dent in the cleaning up by the time a key scraping against the front door that announces Patrick’s arrival by a full fifteen seconds before he makes his way into the apartment. “Oh, hello!” he says brightly. He strikes me as being the exact same level of drunk as he was a few hours ago, which seems impressive. “Hi Min! Hi mom! Hi Lucy! Did you have fun?”

“Not as much fun as you guys had,” Mindy says, struggling to rise from her chair. Patrick rushes over to help, and she reaches an arm out to him until he gets within breathing distance, whereupon she abruptly pushes him away. “Oh, no, shower, tooth brush, something. You smell like a brewery. My morning sickness is over, but not  _ that  _ over.” 

“Okay!” Never in my life have I seen a happier drunk. 

“There’s definitely only a thirty percent chance he comes back,” Anthony says of Patrick. “He was basically comatose for most of the ride home.”

“You didn’t lose Josh, did you?” I ask.

“He’s down in the car,” Anthony says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I don’t think he’s going to get himself out, either, so, uh. Good luck with that. He’s real tall.”

“Well,” I say decisively, grabbing my purse and jacket, “I better go make sure he’s okay. Mindy, beautiful party. Elaine, Anthony, good to see you.”

“Bye, Lucy!” Patrick calls from somewhere inside the apartment. “Tell Josh to drink water!” 

***

Getting Josh 98% of the way home goes perfectly. It’s the last two percent that proves troublesome, because that is when he says. “I am too old to get drunk, Shortcake, but I did and now I am so tired and must take a rest.” And then he sits down on the stoop of our building. It takes me five minutes to convince him to walk the rest of the way upstairs. 

This second wind fortunately lasts him through taking a shower, brushing his teeth, and getting into some pajamas. Then, even though the sun is barely down, he decides it is time for bed. I try to entice him into eating some dinner but he keeps insisting that he really feels it would be better if we just went to bed, instead. He is cute and happy enough--not as happy as Patrick, but that would make me worry that Josh had been replaced by a pod person--that I eventually give in. I’ll get back up after he falls asleep--because even if he doesn’t want dinner, I do--but I can’t imagine that will take long, given his current state. 

“Hiya there, Shortcake,” Josh mumbles sleepily when I curl up next to him. 

“Hiya there, Josh,” I say back. He is cuter than cute. 

“I had fun today. Did you?”

“I did. Mindy and I made friends.”

“Oh no. Should I be worried?”

“Oh, absolutely.” 

His chuckle is even sleepier. I push a flop of hair out of his face. 

The pause before he speaks again is so long that I begin to think he has fallen asleep. Then he says, eyes closed, “I get why Patrick wanted to marry her.”

I poke at the part of my brain that feels jealousy, and find nothing. Good timing for my talk with Mindy. But still, “I think you’re gonna have to unpack that one for me, Templeman, given the situation.”

He’s so close to sleep that I’m not sure how well he’s processing what I’m saying. “I thought he was crazy. Wanting to be married. I get it now, though. When I ask you to marry me you’re gonna be  _ so  _ surprised.” 

It takes some stringing together, but I’m just able to follow his line of thinking. I smile. “I don’t think I will be, not if you tell me your plans.”

“Nah,” he says. “You’ll be so surprised.” 

“Okay,” I agree. 

Shortly thereafter, his breathing evens out, punctuated with the occasional little snore. I laugh a little, kiss his head, and then go to make myself a sandwich.

***

“I am dying,” Josh moans when he rolls out of bed just before noon the next day. “I am going to die, and then later I am going to kill my brother, maybe my dad, then die again.”

I hand him two aspirin and a glass of water and then, after he has downed these, a mug of coffee. 

“You are the best girlfriend in the world,” he says, tossing himself back on the couch. “Yesterday was fun, though.”

“So you said, last night.”

“I have literally no recollection of any conversation we had yesterday. I have not been that drunk since college.” 

“So you also said, last night.”

“I remember having this vague worry that you would think I had a secret life where I was getting drunk all the time?”

“Guess what I’m going to say about you, our conversation, and last night?”

He peeks open one eye at me. “So I gather I was not a cool and mysterious man of mystery?”

“You were not even a little. You were very cute though,” I add, because I know he will hate it. 

He groans obligingly. “I’m going back to bed. Not cute. Just regular. And just...try again tomorrow.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sexy times 
> 
> (I'm never sure where to draw the line between M and E--my instinct is for when there's specific descriptions of specific sex things as opposed to v heavy implications of what's happening, which is where this chapter lies--but if anybody thinks I've passed that line and should bump up the rating, please tell me! I am endeavoring to be as accurate as possible)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“On a scale of one to ten, how actively are you plotting my murder at this moment?” Josh asks as he drives us home one evening. 

“Seven,” I say, rubbing my temples. 

Sales negotiations with Sanderson are not going well. 

My rational, human brain knows that none of this is Josh’s fault, and that he is just doing his job, and that he is not even necessarily doing it in an uncool way, but just in his serious, professional, stern  _ Josh  _ way, but another, louder voice from my furious gremlin brain is fantasizing about the times when I could torment him in good conscience. 

But now I  _ love  _ him and have to be  _ nice  _ to him and it is  _ bullshit _ . 

This week has been so goddamned long I can hardly handle it. 

Last week had been consumed with work, as well, with Amanda and I ensconced into my office later and later each day, scouring through budget reports, sales projections, and a whole mess of other paperwork that would have been staggeringly boring, if not for that we kept finding in it the clues of how to build our proposal. 

By the end of the week, we were optimistic. Proud of our work. Josh and I had spent our weekend in our regular activities, plus a stop-in at Mindy’s place; she was so massive at this point that getting out and about was a bit of a project, and Patrick, on a long weekend shift at the hospital, had texted asking me to pop in to give her some company. We had decided to get deeply, obsessively involved in a  _ Grey’s Anatomy  _ binge, giddy at the absence of any of the Templeman brothers and their pesky medical knowledge. A few hours of Christina Yang had distracted me from the nearly undeniable urge to brag to Josh about my impressive sales proposal. 

We hadn’t even made it to lunchtime on Monday morning before so many holes had been punched in our negotiating tactics that it might as well have been one of those cut out paper snowflakes. 

“Um,” Amanda had said over the truly delicious salad that I was too irritated to do anything more than pick at. “I feel like this is a moment to remind you that you actually like Josh? And also Mel?”

“I know that,” I muttered petulantly, stabbing a sliver of smoked salmon. 

“You may wish to transmit the message to your face is something I might say if you weren’t my boss,” Amanda remarked to the ceiling. 

I let out a slow breath and tried to paste on a smile. 

“Oh, Christ, no, I take it back. Please don’t do that.”

Things had not necessarily improved from there. 

Not that anyone was being a dick about it, per se, least of all Josh. I knew,  _ knew _ , he was doing his job. I knew that it was largely up to him to ensure that this sale--overall a loss for Sanderson--was as profitable as possible, and that, as head of finance, those profits were a direct reflection of his performance. I even knew that he was sort of proud of the fight I was putting up--I could see it hiding in a glint in his eye every now and again--and that I was the one being a competitive, persnickety asshole. 

But there was something about his stupid handsome face, the way his big, muscled form filled the chair--not lounging, or casual, but somehow giving the impression of inscouiance--his matter-of-face, just short of bored tone as he made counterproposal after counterproposal that made me fantasize about messing him up, shaking that unflappable confidence. These fantasies turned to sex only about five percent of the time. The other ninety-five were more in the vein of noogies or him splashing water on his pants so it looked like he peed. 

I am not necessarily proud of this level of childishness. The best thing I can say for myself is that, thus far, I have managed to keep them inside my head. 

I am also annoyingly aware that I am channeling my anxiety about the possibility that this project--the first big one I have undertaken since becoming COO--could still go belly-up into being pissed at Josh. I’m not sure what the shape of my career looks like from here--a weird side effect of having been promoted so young--but I do know that I want my record to start on success, not failure. But this feels too big to handle, so I am shoving it down and instead being a pissy monster to my boyfriend. 

It has not been the most impressive showing from Lucy Hutton, I have to say. 

So, instead of being a grownup, I am sulking while Josh drives. 

And the  _ absolute worst part of it all  _ is that he is still being nice to me. 

It’s a disturbing reversal is what it is. 

“Seven isn’t so bad,” Josh comments in response to my murder-o-meter. “Not to minimize your rage, but is it possible that we could knock that down to a six with some dinner?”

“I am  _ not  _ mad because I’m hungry. Not all my emotions are tied to my blood sugar, you horrible  _ man _ .”

He wisely does not respond to this, which then just makes me more mad, because I  _ am  _ hungry, but I am full up on letting Josh be right today. Just  _ full up _ . 

I am still sulky when we get home, mountingly furious that Josh is just letting me brood, irritated with myself for creating conflict that is totally unnecessary. Somehow the fact that he isn’t getting mad at my obviously terrible behavior makes everything worse. 

I shuffle about the apartment while Josh calmly makes stir fry. He has almost finished when I lose it. “What is  _ wrong  _ with you?” I ask, barging into the kitchen. “Why are you so  _ calm?  _ I am being a  _ monster. _ ”

He puts aside his wooden spoon slowly, and turns to regard me. I am fuming. “I feel like you’re going to hate what I have to say,” he hedges. “I’m trying to come up with a good lie, but I have to say, those also seem bad.”

I swear that the growl that erupts from my throat is completely against my will. He fights back a smile. 

“I. Will. Destroy. You.”

His tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip. Damn him and his steady temper. Damn him and his beautiful face. Damn his ability to cook. Stupid, stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ Joshua Templeman. 

“Go easy on me, Shortcake, I am begging you. You have been positively merciless this week.”

“ _ Me?”  _ It’s a strangled squeak. My body is too small to contain the force of my anger. It is Josh-sized, at least. No, bigger. Grizzly bear big.  _ Elephant  _ big. “ _ I  _ have been merciless? You have been smashing my proposal to bits!”

A crooked smile darts across Josh’s face before he straightens his face. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, Shortcake, but you know I’m doing my job. Besides…” He trails off. My head is going to explode. I swear that my hair is even getting bigger, like a bird puffing up its feathers. My face is boiling hot.

“ _ Besides what? _ ”

Josh hasn’t quite been meeting my eye, but now he looks at me dead on. “I wouldn’t trade watching you try to beat me for anything, even if it does drive me half crazy with absolutely  _ filthy  _ thoughts.” He pins me with his gaze.

I close my eyes for a moment. I am practically vibrating. All week, he has been driving me nuts, making me absolutely insane, building up my anger like a volcano, and that  _ utter bastard  _ had the  _ absolute audacity _ to find it hot. I am going to kill him. I am going to absolutely kill him. 

I open my eyes and he is standing right in front of me and I swear I am going to murder him right up until I grab him by his stupid, beautiful face and his stupid, gorgeous hair and smash his mouth against mine. 

Josh lets out a noise that sounds like relief. 

I’m not even sure if I jump or if he lifts me, but suddenly I am in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist. He presses us back against the wall, one strong forearm bracing underneath my ass. I am burning, burning, white hot, and Josh is hot, too, but somehow pressing myself closer against him seems like the obvious answer. 

“You are  _ insufferable _ ,” I hiss as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against my throat. 

“Yes,” he agrees, nipping at my collarbone. I tangle my fingers in his hair harder, and his hips jerk against me. 

“You have been needling me  _ all week _ and  _ liking it _ .” I thunk my head against the wall. 

“In my defense--” he is kissing me between words, under my jaw, across my face, hard on my mouth. I nip at his lip. He licks into my mouth and it is not close enough. He tastes faintly of ginger--some distant, barely-there part of my brain recalls that he’s been cooking--and overwhelmingly of Josh. This is exactly how I want to die. “--you haven’t seen you when you’re mad. When you argue. You’re so good. So smart. It’s so hot. You kill me.” His sentences get shorter and shorter, his breathing heavier and heavier. 

I can barely talk myself. “You are a nightmare,” I gasp. “Bed, right now, or I swear to god…”

I have no idea where this threat is going, so fortunately Josh complies. Much as I am enjoying this dual display of physical strength and agreeableness--I mean, let’s be real, making out up against a wall is one that never gets old--I can’t take off his clothes from this angle and I need them to be off right now. 

Josh kicks the bedroom door open. “You are such a showoff.” I am still in the mood to be furious. “I am going to destroy you tomorrow.” 

“Fuck yes.  _ Please _ .” He sounds so pleased at the concept as he lays back on the bed, settling me on top of him. I pull at the buttons of his shirt, my fingers hasty and clumsy. 

I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die for sure. 

I  _ finally  _ get his shirt open. His hands are roaming over my back, searing for a zipper to my dress. He gives up, guides the straps down over my shoulders. I lean back down, bite his shoulder. He jolts and I pull back. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“Not bad hurt,” he corrects, pulling me back in for another hot, consuming, melting kiss. “You’re very hot when you’re mean.”

“You little perv,” I accuse, reaching between us to fumble at his belt. I am not enjoying how it’s digging into my thigh and also, naked. Naked is better. 

“Yes,” he agrees happily, and I don’t know if he’s referring to my claims about his proclivities or my actions regarding his pants, which he kicks off as soon as I have them unbuttoned. I very extremely do not hate feeling him wriggle beneath me. 

I don’t even know if I’m angry anymore. I am feeling a lot of things all at once, and they bear a remarkable similarity to the rage I felt earlier, but I don’t want to stop. I manage--somehow? Who knows--to get out of my underwear. Josh fumbles in the nightstand for a condom, but then lays it aside. “Wait,” he says. 

“What?” I choke it out. I have very many further thoughts about how this is one of the worst ideas he has ever had, which I manage to keep to myself because consent, and he is of course allowed to say wait at any point. I obviously don’t want him to do anything that he’s not completely into, but I also feel like I have been struck by lightning, so I am very deeply psyched when  _ wait  _ doesn’t turn out to mean  _ stop _ , but rather to serve as a precursor to Josh flipping us over (effortlessly--what is being struck by lightning times two?) and flashing me a devilish grin. 

“I told you, Shortcake. I have a full week of simply terrible thoughts to work with.”

I want to growl at him more, but this one comes out as more of a whimper. I love him. I hate him. He is far too good at things. It is perfectly unfair. 

It is only when Josh raises his head and says, “you don't seem to be finding it  _ too  _ unfair at the moment,” sounding impossibly smug that I realize that I have been saying at least some of this out loud. 

“Bite me,” I reply and god help me, that idiot  _ does _ , right above the inside of my knee. My gasp is lost in a thousand other gasps. 

By the time Josh is finished, I am frankly shocked that I have not died of hyperventilation. 

“You wreck me,” he murmurs into my shoulder. He gropes blindly for the condom. It has gotten stuck to the underside of my shoulder; I reach across, peel it off, and hand it to him. 

“I am sick in love with you,” I say. “Maybe too much. I don’t know. One day you’re gonna figure it out. Be super freaked out, probably.” I am giddy with pleasure and heat and Josh and  _ goodness  _ my day has taken a really weird turn. 

“Hope so,” Josh gasps. He shudders, and I dig my fingers into the back of his neck. He is a little sweaty, but then again, so am I. It is the opposite of gross. 

Ever wary of crushing me, Josh rolls to his side, but neither of us pulls away from the other. 

I didn’t even make it out of my  _ dress _ . It’s bunched around my waist. 

Whew.

“I might still be mad at you again tomorrow,” I caution.

Josh gives a saucy look down at where we are still wrapped around each other. “Um, somehow I find that threat less than troubling.”

I nudge my shoulder against him forcefully. He just pulls me in a little tighter. I am ready to settle in to this position when my stomach gives a loud grumble. 

“Shut up,” I say as Josh begins to shake with suppressed laughter. “Oh my god, Templeman, shut  _ up.”  _

“Do you want me to feed you, my Shortcake, whose emotions are never tied to hunger, not ever?” 

“I could pencil in being mad again for this evening.” I wriggle a hand between us to tap a stern finger to his nose. He bites it. 

“Food first, though?”

“Food first,” I agree. 

The stir fry has gotten cold, but eating it half-dressed in bed with this sweet, sweet boy I love so much, I find that I can’t hardly mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to all for bearing with a more-erratic-than-usual posting schedule--I've been up against deadlines from work, which has slowed me down. I appreciate your understanding!!


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy father's day to patrick templeman ONLY and not anthony (or any other bad dad) because even though he is trying a little he was still v much a dick 
> 
> (aka the chapter in which family healing is complicated but it's ok bc there's a cute baby and lucy is an angry defender of josh)

Chapter Thirty

About a week after I moved in, Josh had positively put his foot down regarding the “Walking on Sunshine” alarm. 

“Lucinda,” he had said over breakfast, “I don’t want to be that asshole who tells you what to do, especially since you just moved in, but if I hear that song one more time, I am going to have an aneurism. It is the worst. The worst. It is the worst thing I have ever heard and I am going to die if I wake up to it one more time.” 

This had struck me as being perhaps a little dramatic, but I was not so attached to the alarm as to mount an objection. We had established a pattern: Josh’s alarm would go off, which I had trained my brain to mostly ignore long before we had moved in together, and I would half-wake, half-doze while he took a shower. He’d wake me the rest of the way up when he got out, about ten minutes later, for my turn in the bathroom. 

As far as systems went, it worked, so I am surprised when I wake up one morning to Josh still in bed beside me, saying with surprising urgency, “oh, dang, Shortcake, wake up!” 

“What?” I ask blearily. This is only a few minutes off from when I normally get up, and I am too sleepy to have made any assumptions, and Josh’s lack of distress registers before I have even begun to consider the bad possibilities. 

“Patrick texted. They went to the hospital. Baby’s coming.”

“Oh!” This perks me right awake, and I jolt, as if to take action, before I realize that I’m not sure what I could even do. “Exciting!”

Josh nods absently. He’s turned back to his phone and has reached out to flip on the bedside lamp. “Mm. Looks like she’s been laboring most of the night, but they only went to the hospital about ninety minutes ago.”

“Why’d they wait?” I ask, reaching for my own phone. I had a few texts from Mindy.

**Mindy Templeman:** P says these ones are real labor not horrible practice labor so: GO TIME. so hype to not be pregnant. I mean also baby, duh, but you get it. Not so bad so far but P says will get worse (lol thanks P just what i needed rn)

**Mindy Templeman:** this is more dramatic in the movies tbh

**Mindy Templeman:** jk got worse

That was from about three hours ago. If Josh’s timeline is correct, I am guessing she did not enjoy the hour between when she sent that and when they left for the hospital.

Josh looks away from his phone, and blinks, processing my question. “Oh, uh, most places won’t let you in until contractions are about six minutes apart.”

“Why not?” 

Josh shrugs. “I left med school, remember? I’m guessing bureaucratic reasons rather than medical, but what do I know?”

It turns out that there’s not much else to do with that, so we just start our day.

Of course, I realized that we weren’t going to rush off to the hospital. I had been excited, but not, like, driven to distraction about Mindy and Patrick’s forthcoming baby, so I’m surprised how frequently I think to wonder how it’s going. 

Mindy is the first person I’ve really known, as an adult, to have a baby; I’m surprised by how much  _ waiting  _ there is. I think back to Mindy’s text--it really isn’t like in the movies. At lunchtime, I text Josh to ask if he’s heard anything further. The answer, apparently, is both yes and no: Patrick, who has grown increasingly nervous, has been bombarding him with texts (Mindy, apparently driven to distraction by his anxious energy, commanded him to ‘take a lap,’ Josh reports with a laugh) but nothing has actually progressed in any dramatic way. I feel for Mindy, acutely. It has been at least ten hours since things “got worse.”

By five o’clock, I feel weirdly, jittery, and though I think that work may distract me, it takes until only about 5:04 before I decide I might as well just go home. “Good luck to your sister-in-law!” Amanda, who has been following the saga. This is also how she has been referring to Mindy; to reminders that I am not actually married, she has shrugged and replied, “close enough.”

I am not entirely sure how to feel about this. Largely speaking, it makes me feel  _ ancient  _ compared to Amanda. 

I pick up Thai food takeout for dinner; if Josh feels half as jittery as I do (which, frankly, could go either way, as he is typically the less jittery of us, but also this is his  _ literal baby nephew _ ) he won’t be interested in cooking. This impulse turns out to be right, for when I get home, Josh is pretending to watch television, his knee bouncing so furiously that it reveals every iota of his stress. 

“No news,” is the first thing he says when I walk through the door. I huff out a sigh of exasperation and he gives a single, tense nod of agreement. 

We try to watch tv, and fail. We try to read (me) and clean (Josh), and fail. The only thing we manage to do successfully is talk about how we are both staggeringly surprised at how tense and worried we are, and even that line of conversation runs out eventually, and so it is a blissful relief when, at around quarter to nine, our phones simultaneously beep with a video message from Patrick. We crowd around Josh’s phone to watch. 

It opens on Patrick, looking bedraggled, with his hair sticking up in all kinds of different directions, but unbelievably happy. I immediately start to tear up. Patrick fuzzes in and out of focus for a moment, before turning the camera to Mindy, who looks tired, sweaty, and completely beatific. Patrick’s voice comes from off-screen. “It was a long day--” (“First babies often take a long time,” Josh murmurs. “I learned  _ that  _ much.”) “--but we would like to introduce--” and here the camera pans in on the little bundle clutched in Mindy’s arms “--David Joshua Templeman.” 

I had been holding it together, but the instant Patrick says the baby’s middle name, I start to cry in earnest. I still cling to a little restraint, because we haven’t even  _ seen  _ the baby yet, and if I cry too hard, I won’t be able to see properly. For this reason, I very specifically do not look at Josh. If he is having any reaction at all--and how could he not?--I will very completely fall apart.

Man, and I thought weddings were bad.

Finally--and I recognize that it really hasn’t been that long, but I’m not sure how much restraint I’m expected to have left--the video zooms in on the sweet little bundle of baby. He is asleep, his tiny face scrunched, and still a little blotchy from his adventures in being born, but he is so, so precious that it breaks my heart and heals it right up again. 

Mindy’s voice comes in, weary and soft. “Hi Uncle Josh and Auntie Lucy!” 

Before the video cuts off, I hear a sound from Patrick that sounds like maybe he’s going to cry. I, personally, applaud his restraint. 

When I finally look over at Josh, he is staring at the screen, which has reverted to that first blurry frame of Patrick’s face. His expression is faintly shocked, and his eyes, too, are wet. “I didn’t know,” he says, his voice so, so soft. “I didn’t expect… They used my name.” He looks at me and smiles gingerly, almost like he’s afraid to feel the full force of his feelings. 

I lean my head on his shoulder, and press the full of my weight against his side. He wraps an arm around my waist to pull me even closer, and presses a slow, firm kiss to the top of my head, keeping up the pressure until he runs out of breath. I feel the soft rush of his inhale, and then he turns his cheek to the top of my head. We sit there like that, just pressing ourselves into each other, for a long moment, and then Josh all but whispers, “a baby.”

“That’s right, Uncle Josh,” I agree with a teary smile, and his arm tightens, almost reflexively. 

We hug for a good, long while. It is a good day. 

***

The morning that Mindy, Patrick, and baby David are due to come home from the hospital, Josh and I go over to their apartment early, just to tidy things up and stock their fridge and be generally helpful. Their doorman--which they have, because they’re fancy--lets us in only to find the apartment cluttered from Patrick’s hasty comings and goings over the last few days. There are at least six half-drunk coffee cups. A load of dishes seems first priority. I set to it while Josh unpacks the groceries and spends an adorable amount of time arranging the tiny green and blue striped tiger that we bought for David, next to the pile of flowers and treats that I was in charge of picking out for Mindy. Josh took great delight in writing “NOT FOR PATRICK” on everything edible. 

(“Not that I particularly want to think too much about it,” Josh had said when I had suggested that this particular brand of sibling hazing could wait until the man had been a father for, say, a week. Maybe even a month. “But I know what his contribution to this whole thing was. He got to have all the fun and then she had to do nine months of work followed by a day of extreme, painful work, and now she has to do the work of feeding the baby, and my idiot brother is going to get to sleep while she does that, and the bastard is going to do that without any chocolate purchased on  _ our  _ dime, let me tell you that, Shortcake.”

“This is about the Easter egg, isn’t it?”

“...it is possibly sort of about the Easter egg. But my logic remains.”)

We have been there for nearly an hour--the dishwasher is running, we have assembled a few casseroles that they can throw right in the oven, as well as some salads, marinated fish, and generally anything we can think of that they can make with little effort and still turn into a reasonable meal, and Josh has nervously tidied and vacuumed--when Mindy and Patrick arrive, delicately cradling a baby car seat and, in it, little David. Josh and I both jolt to attention, and even though we are careful to do so silently, both Patrick and Mindy’s hands fly to their lips in a shushing gesture. 

They have, it seems, embraced the parenting maxim to  _ never wake the baby _ with alacrity. 

We approach them with all due caution, tiptoeing almost exaggeratedly. 

David is twice as precious in person as he was in the video. As we approach where Mindy has settled herself a little gingerly on the couch, Josh clasps his hands behind his back, as if he is afraid he’ll mar the baby. I had been fully prepared to touch every part of his sweet little baby hands and adorable little baby toes, not to mention his round little baby cheeks and tiny little baby nose--but I decide to follow Josh’s model regarding caution. 

Mindy raises an eyebrow at me. “Lucy. Just touch the baby.”

He immediately latches his tiny fist around my hand. Patrick slides over so that I can sit on the couch, hold David’s hand, and cry at the same time. When I manage to blink through, I catch Mindy’s eye.  _ I know, right _ ? she mouths, looking at me. 

Patrick, though, is looking at Josh. I follow his gaze, and see Josh looking at me with a weird, unreadable expression on his face. It’s tender, almost...wistful, and even though I’m not entirely sure how to pick it apart, it makes me feel like I should be blushing. I hold his gaze for a moment, and the corners of his mouth tilt up, just a tiny bit. 

I have to look back at the baby. Mindy, I can see from the corner of my eye, seems to be trying very, very hard not to smile. 

This is too many emotions at once, so I just push them all down and concentrate on the feeling of the baby holding my hand. 

I have never thought this before, but bless Patrick, who is either delightfully oblivious or charmingly tactful, who natters on about the plans to introduce baby David to the broader family. Elaine is going to come into town starting next week, and stay for a few weeks to help during those first few weeks when the baby sleeps on a schedule that makes adult humans quake and weep. I note that Patrick looks a little more doubtful about this than Mindy does, and I recall that Mindy’s mother is...somewhat difficult. 

Patrick’s hospital offers paid parental leave, regardless of the parent’s gender (“Quite right,” says Josh, who has taken to kneeling on the floor so that he can get a better look at the baby), but only for a month. Elaine will be around when Patrick has to go back. 

“So I get to go from sleepless nights at home to sleepless nights at work,” Patrick comments dryly. 

“I told you being a doctor was an exercise in masochism,” Josh says. “The cute kid is definitely worth staying up for, though.” 

We stay like this for a little while, complimenting David profusely, to the clear delight and pride of the new parents. Eventually, David starts to stir and fuss, and Mindy announces that it’s time for him to eat. 

Josh and Patrick both immediately blush. I’m not sure they have ever looked more like brothers. Mindy rolls her eyes. “Either cease your stupid man crap or leave the room so I can feed my baby. Lucy, if you are not afraid to see--” she gives an exaggerated gasp “--a breast, you can stay.”

“I feel equal to the challenge.” 

“Great. Breastfeeding is a miracle, a chance to bond with my baby, blah blah blah, but also, like, some conversation would not go amiss.” She is already unbuttoning her blouse as David’s fussing rapidly approaches the threshold for proper crying. 

Josh hauls himself up from the floor, wincing a little. It had to have been hard on his knees. “Uh, if it weren’t like noon, I’d say we should have a ‘welcome to fatherhood’ scotch…”

Patrick waves a dismissive hand, also rising to his feet. “Time is meaningless when you’re on this kind of sleep schedule. Let’s do it.”

Mindy cheerfully flips him off as he leaves. “Total bullshit that he can drink and I still can’t, by the way.” 

I give a mock-rueful shake of my head. “The miracle of life is really harshing your vibe, huh?”

She laughs. “For real, though. Like, I thought pregnancy was weird, and then I went into labor.” I make a sympathetic face. “It was--apparently--textbook, just long, but textbook. And yet I still was totally planning how to gruesomely murder Patrick for like half the time. And now, everything--” she reaches around David’s head and gestures vaguely at her entire torso “--hurts, or if it doesn’t, it just feels  _ so weird _ , but also…” She trails off, and her smile is so sweet. “Look at this little guy. I  _ made him _ .”

Mindy keeps smiling at David for a few moments longer, and then something seems to click in her sleepy brain. “If Patrick asks, though, tell him I said that  _ we  _ made him.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Nursing takes less time than I would have expected, but then again, he really is a very small bundle. Mindy rearranges her clothes, and then wearily pushes a fallen strand of hair out of her face. 

“Any chance you’d be willing to burp him?” she asks. “I could positively kill for a nap. Or possibly a shower. But, realistically, a nap.”

I have barely finished settling David on my shoulder, a burping cloth positioned under his head, by the time Mindy is fully asleep on the couch. 

I burp the baby, and clean him up, and then, because Patrick and Josh haven’t reemerged, I keep cradling the sleeping baby, his dense weight--the kind that you never really have after toddlerhood--comforting and soft and soporific. Time flattens, slows. I have no idea how long I have been sitting there, our quiet time interspersed only by Mindy’s occasional shifting in her sleep, when Josh and Patrick come quietly back into the room. Patrick has his arm over Josh’s shoulder--he has to reach up a tiny bit to do this, I notice--and Josh’s eyes look a little read. 

While Patrick is engrossed in watching his sleeping son, I shoot Josh a look that asks if he’s okay. He nods and gives me a little soft smile. 

Patrick observes that his son is sleeping, and his wife is sleeping, and concludes that he, too, should be sleeping while he has the chance, so we leave with little fanfare, and a promise that we will come back whenever they need us. 

In the elevator on the way down, Josh is quiet, but wraps a strong arm around my shoulders. I turn my head to press a kiss into his side. All I can really reach is a part of his chest that is, frankly, half-armpit, but it’s more about gesture than execution. 

When I am settled in the driver’s seat, I look over at Josh. “Are you really, actually okay?” 

Josh scrubs at his eyes, then reaches over and tucks a curl behind my ear. I wait, not starting the car. “Yeah, yeah, I’m… Patrick  _ apologized _ .” 

“He...apologized?” I run through a mental litany of Patrick’s potential sins and come up empty.

“Yeah. He said that… He said that my dad was wrong, to be such a dick for all those years. He said the minute he saw his son that he knew…” Josh clears his throat thickly. “That he knew that if my dad could act like I didn’t matter for all those years that it meant there was something wrong with my dad. Not me.” 

I have never seen Josh cry in earnest before. Teary, sure, but he is actively crying now, and it breaks my heart. I want to cry with him, but this is his moment. Instead, I pull his hand to my mouth, and kiss his knuckles.  _ I love you _ , I try to say with this gesture.  _ I love you, and your brother was right; you’re wonderful. You’re so, so wonderful.  _

“He kept saying that. ‘It wasn’t you, Josh. Dad made you think that, but it wasn’t you. Never.’” 

“He’s right,” I say quietly. I will keep saying it as many times as he needs to hear it. 

“I...think I know. I just don’t think I knew how much I needed to hear it...from someone who was there, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t, not really, but I think this is what he needs to hear at the moment. 

But really, I don’t know. My parents are far from perfect, and there were times, particularly when I was a teenager, when I absolutely hated them--for being so cheerful and in love when I felt awkward and miserable and had just been dumped by my first boyfriend, Steve Dubose; for living out on a farm far enough from the nearest school that I had to get up at  _ five forty-five  _ in the morning to catch the school bus--but I never, not for one solitary second, doubted that they loved me, with all of their goofy, sweet, kind hearts. 

And so I don’t really know, not really. I cannot fathom what it feels like to have a parent ignore you, treat you like an inconvenient  _ extra _ . I can’t imagine the depth of his hurt, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never fully understand it. I’m not even sure that  _ Patrick  _ can fully understand it; he was a bystander, but never in the direct line of fire. 

I hate that I don’t know how to fix it. I hate that I’m pretty sure I  _ can’t.  _ I hate that Josh wants to build a relationship with Anthony, even if I don’t begrudge him his willingness to face the hurt directly. Shit, I sort of even admire it, even though every time we see Anthony, I am terrified and furious that he will say something to Josh that will hurt him--god, that he will even  _ look  _ at him wrong--because it isn’t just one wrong comment or one wrong look, it’s that wrong look and wrong comment on top of decades of neglect, of the kind of casual cruelty that is somehow harder to pull apart the knot of than, perhaps, outright viciousness might have been. 

Just thinking about it makes me furious, fills me with a rage whose violence, frankly, continues to surprise me. 

And so I can be nice to Anthony. I can even like him a little, sometimes. 

But I absolutely do not forget. 

“You deserve to hear that, Josh,” I say to him. 

He nods, pulls his hand away to grind the heels of his palms into his eyes, then immediately takes my hand again, like it’s a lifeline. “It was just a really nice thing to say. It was just...really nice to hear.”

I touch his face, and he turns to look at me. I make firm eye contact. “You  _ deserve  _ to have people say nice things to you. That is the  _ bare minimum _ . I know you think you’re not nice or whatever--”

“I’m not, really--” he interrupts, and I increase the pressure on his face, just enough to get his attention.

“--but that does not matter. It doesn’t. And there is nothing-- _ nothing _ \--that you could have done to make your dad act the way he did. Do you understand me? Nothing. You were a child. And even if you weren’t, he was your dad, and being good to you was his whole job. He failed. He failed you, and you did  _ nothing wrong _ . Do you hear me?” 

He gives a very, very small nod, but doesn’t look sufficiently convinced. “Listen to me, Joshua Templeman.” I use my bossiest tone, which always cheers him a bit; his lips twitch a little. “I will kick the ass of anyone who suggests otherwise, even if that person is you. And I will keep kicking their asses as many times as they need kicking. Okay?”

I hold Josh’s gaze until he gives me a much more confident nod. “Okay, Shortcake.” He turns his face and presses a kiss into my palm. 

“I love you,” I tell him seriously, and even though I am doing all this for him, to try to heal whatever tiny bit of hurt that I can, but I find that it feels good to say, too. “And god help me, I will fuck up anybody who even thinks about harming you, and I will say nice things about you as long as it takes for you to believe them, and that is  _ my  _ job, you got it?”

“You’re too nice, Shortcake,” he says. But when he says it this time, it doesn’t sound like he minds so much. 

I pull him in and kiss him, first on his mouth, then once on each cheek, then on his forehead. I brush away one residual tear and, even though his eyes are closed, he smiles his first real smile since we got in the car. I let him settle back into his seat and finally start the car and pull away from Patrick and Mindy’s to weave through the moderate traffic. Josh keeps his eyes closed and sits quietly, and I let him process, our silence soft and comfortable. 

We’re a little more than halfway home, and I’m mentally cursing a jaywalking pedestrian when Josh says, “You do want kids, right, Shortcake?”

I blink a little at the non sequitur, and when I glance over, Josh is looking at me intently. 

“Um, yeah,” I say, switching lanes. “You knew that.”

I can feel more than see his gaze as I continue driving. “I mean, we have talked about it, but sort of abstractly. And...I just wanted to ask, like, specifically.” 

I wish I could look at him more directly, but then we would crash the car and die, and that isn’t ideal. “Yeah, Josh. I want kids. With you, specifically, just so you don’t have to ask.” He touches my hair again, gently. 

“I won’t be my dad.” His voice is quiet. “I promise.” 

Fortunately, we come upon a perfectly-timed red light, so I can look over at him. “I know, Josh. I know that.” 

“Okay.” He nods decisively. “Okay. Good. Okay.” 

“And,” I add lightly, “even though Mindy put the absolute  _ fear of god  _ into me about pregnancy and childbirth over the last few months and hours, I think I’d like two. I never had a sibling, always kind of wanted one.”

“I am feeling good about my brother today, so that feels good to me.” I am heartened to hear Josh joke a little. “You know, because this seems like the kind of thing you should decide based on one good day.”

“Oh definitely,” I agree. His fingers tighten in my hair, scratching softly at the nape of my neck. 

We fall into another comfortable silence. I am starting to think that maybe Josh is asleep when he speaks again. 

“Christ, what a day. I’m starving. You hungry?”

I hang a u-turn and head for our favorite burger place because, damn, after today, we deserve some french fries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! i know that my posting schedule has been a little bit slower of late than usual, but i promise that i have not forgotten or given up! my work schedule is variable, and i am a bit busy at the moment with deadlines etc., so i can't guarantee that i'm going to speed up, but i do promise that even when a chapter feels like it has been a long time coming that it is, in fact, still coming. thank you so much for hanging in/bearing with/etc etc. like lucy to josh, i will say nice things about you until you believe them, such as: you are wonderful, your hair *always* looks great, and if you think people are talking about you behind your back, it is because they are complimenting your face and your sense of humor and also your cooking. xo


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it probably feels like I have totally abandoned this fic but I promise that I have NOT, I am just swamped with work this summer, but I am working on it! just slowly! so if you are waiting for an update please know that I adore you and also that it is in the works <3
> 
> (ps my word doc is officially...200 pages now? thanks to all for bearing with me as i write this therapeutic fantasy land where we're all still allowed to go places)

Chapter Thirty-One

The next few weeks are relentlessly, feverishly busy. I regularly wake up to all-hours texts from Mindy, typically featuring very cute pictures of David (the time she captions one with “PLEASE PRAISE MY BABY I BUILT HIS WHOLE FACE!!!!” I laugh so hard that Josh hears me from inside the shower) or vaguely unhinged ruminations on what it feels like to have been awake for, by her count, “possibly one hundred years or maybe fifteen minutes?? Nothing means anything. Never have a baby.”

**Mindy Templeman:** I mean, do. Look at mine, he’s cute as shit. 

**Mindy Templeman:** Also, I love him, duh

**Mindy Templeman:** worth it but also i am so tired who even knows what I’m saying

**Mindy Templeman:** thank god I only text you and p bc i FOR SURE would send something embarrassing to someone else

**Mindy Templeman:** you two are too related to me to hold a grudge

**Lucy Hutton:** i am not, in fact, related to you. I’m just in this for the friendship

**Mindy Templeman:** and the cute baby pix??

**Lucy Hutton:** duh

Mindy is an absolute weirdo, but that is part of what I love about her. Josh remains vaguely convinced that our friendship is the product of some kind of curse that he has brought upon himself (“Normally, Shortcake, when a girl dumps you, you don’t have to see her anymore. But then she married my brother. Which, like, fine, because I love you and that is a fun turn my life has taken but then my ex-girlfriend and my current girlfriend decided to form an evil pact to bond under the auspices of female friendship and between the two of you, you have  _ more  _ than enough information and intelligence to outsmart and destroy me, and that’s a scary axe to have hanging over your head!”) but that makes it all the more fun.

I love having a friend. 

I love knowing that, despite Josh wincing every time I talk about conversations with Mindy, he’s secretly happy for me. 

I love coming home to my apartment, and my boyfriend. 

And so, if life is a little predictable, it is still very good. 

Things at work are busy in the wake of the acquisition, but in a way that feels good, rather than stressful. Each day brings a litany of tasks--usually too many to complete before the day is over--but they feel productive. Each one comes closer to totally completing the deal. 

This also means that each task brings me closer to being Val’s boss, but that is a distressing concept that I am, at present, choosing to ignore. 

One thing that I can’t ignore, however, is that when this acquisition is over, I have to promote Amanda. She’s been on my desk for thirteen months, and keeping her any longer is unconscionable.

I feel a deep, abiding dread whenever I consider doing this job without her as my assistant, but I relentlessly remind myself that that’s probably how Helene felt about me, and think about how I felt about being punished for my competence by being kept as an assistant for years. 

I have made Josh promise that any time I say Amanda’s name, he has to respond with “Amanda needs to be promoted.” It is a highly tailored tactic, made for me, by me, to force myself to make meeting with her my absolute priority for my first free moment. 

It takes me two and a half weeks to find that moment, by which point I vaguely want to murder Josh, and also myself, for enacting this rule. 

The time comes on a Wednesday morning. 

“Okay,” says Amanda, coming into my office a little after noon, carrying a heavy paper bag full of lunch. “Absolute priority” meant that I had to schedule Amanda in for a lunch meeting, so buying her the kind of fancy lunch that can’t be bought on an assistant’s salary is literally the least I can do. “I have the fancy food, and I am very excited to eat it, so if this ‘urgent meeting’ is so you can fire me, please let me eat it first.” 

I am neck-deep in contracts, but this jolts me. “Oh my god, did I not tell you what this meeting was about? Sorry, I’m the worst. This is about the opposite of you being fired. This is about you being promoted.”

Amanda is the kind of cool that has a certain level of aloof inherently packed in. She is unflappable, more likely to meet a disaster with a raised eyebrow than an expression of panic, but at this, she breaks into a full grin. “I’m being promoted?” For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks young. 

“I told you, if you did well, eighteen months as an assistant, tops. It’s been thirteen. It’s time to talk about where you want to go.” I spear a piece of seafood out of my paella. “This is a first step. You tell me where you see your career going, and then we will talk about what department will be the best step to make this happen.” I pause, considering. “That is, of course, unless you see your career taking you away from B&G, which will absolutely be a loss for us, but…” I can barely make myself say this last part, because she truly is exceptional, “...is obviously your choice.”

She gulps down a large mouthful. “No! No. I wasn’t planning on leaving. Unless...you think I should.” 

I put down my fork. “I’m gonna straight shoot with you, okay?” She nods. “If it were only about me, I would keep you. Forever. You are an  _ incredible  _ assistant. Working with you as I transitioned into this job… Damn, it kept me from going nuts, for sure. But that is a terrible reason to keep you an assistant, as much as I may want to.” Amanda is blushing now, and I pretend not to notice. “Trust me, I’ve been there. So I am digging in and being very self-sacrificing--” she smiles “--and promoting you, because that is what’s best for you. I hope to death that you don’t leave the company because, one, I like you and, two, you are an asset.”

“Wow,” she says. “Lucy...thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” I cut her off, because I am starting to feel a little emotional. “You have earned this. You deserve it. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” We both take a breath. “Anyway, talk to me about where you see yourself going, professionally speaking.”

For the next hour, we talk about her vision, about how she shifted from thinking more about editorial-- “Ah, yes,” I say, “we all get sucked into the book publishing world with stars in our eyes about editorial.” --but now is thinking that publicity, that knowing what sells and why and how, is maybe where she is headed. I nod and make notes to get her some coffee meetings with various people in the publicity department. We talk about what a junior appointment in publicity would look like, what the promotion track would look like. 

And then--and this is the part that makes me feel kind of sad--we talk about the process of leaving her current position would look like. 

“Ideally,” I tell her, “you would be here to help find, and train, your replacement. But if something big opens up in publicity, that isn’t top priority. In theory, though, we’re looking at about six more months here before you transfer.”

“That will be nineteen months,” she says, scrunching her show to show she’s joking. 

“Yes, well, bosses lie,” I answer archly, and she chuckles. 

We manage to go over a few more scheduling issues-- “Seriously, Amanda, annoy the shit out of me about this if I get swamped and am not on top of it, I am not joking” --before I have to return to the massive piles and piles of work I have waiting for me. I thank her for gathering up our lunch trash, and she ducks back out to her desk, only to stick her head back in a few moments later. 

“Ugh, sorry this is so unprofessional, but since we’ve just talked about how you’re not going to be my boss for that much longer--”

“Well,” I say, “I am still very high up in this company, so I will be like, your boss’ boss’ boss.”

“--do you, uh, have a tampon?”

I chuckle, then reach into the top desk of my drawer, and toss her my emergency spare. 

It is a testament to how goddamned busy I have been that it takes a few more hours before the thought occurs to me.

When the  _ fuck  _ did I last have my period?

I scrabble for my phone, check the app where I log my cycle. I am  _ nine  _ days late.

My brain flicks through about seventy-eight thoughts at once. I am on the pill, but I am not necessarily perfect about taking it. Josh and I use condoms, but we are not necessarily perfect about that, either. I recall all those gross, unsexy high school health class words like ‘pre-ejaculate’ and ‘barrier method.’ 

I think about how I have been under a certain amount of stress, and how that...messes with your body. I think about how bodies are weird in the first place. 

I think about Josh being upset. And then I think--and even my panic-brain is pretty sure that this is more likely--about Josh being excited. 

Both thoughts are scary. 

I try very hard not to think one thing: pregnant. 

Sweet holy god, what if I am pregnant?

I give myself exactly three minutes to freak out  _ aggressively _ , and then I call Mindy. 

“Are you dead?” she asks, picking up immediately. 

“Uh, no?”

“Oh, okay.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed,” I say. 

A huff of a laugh comes down the line. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that Patrick is back to work, and I am still home with the baby, and I am desperate for some adult conversation, by which I obviously mean drama. I’m all caught up on  _ Grey’s _ for the first time in  _ years _ .”

Her delighted prattle actually manages to distract me from my own actual potential crisis. “You have time to watch tv?” 

“While I breastfeed. David is either going to grow up to be a doctor or...a real weirdo. Whatever. What’s up?”

“I may be having a slight...emergency-ish. Not, like, life-threatening, but is there any chance that you could meet me at my place in like an hour?”

“Um, yes.”

“Without your baby,” I add hastily. “This is not a bring-your-baby type situation.”

If anything, she sounds even more delighted. “It has been approximately eleven months since I have been anywhere without my baby. Granted, for nine of those, he was inside my body, but still: I would be delighted.” 

“Great,” I say. “Meet me there.” And then I hang up, because my brain is melting. 

Amanda shoots me a weird look as I leave--it’s been  _ ages  _ since I’ve left before five o’clock--but I ignore her, fully aware that this is a weird shift since our conversation this afternoon. “See you tomorrow,” I manage to squeak out.

I buy two different brands of pregnancy --one seems too few, but three seems too many--and try, desperately, not to feel any emotions. 

Being scared, I think logically, is dumb. I am in my late twenties, in a stable relationship, with a good job; I fully plan on having kids with Josh, just not...right now. I try to think of all the people who are in much, much worse circumstances than I am. Those people have babies every day. 

Still, I am very nervous. 

When I get home, Mindy is sitting on my doorstep, looking psyched. “Heyooooo,” she croons. She seems positively delighted to be out of the house. “Is your crisis fun? Is it fake? If it involves booze, I can pump and dump. I left Elaine with some breast milk in the fridge.”

Given my current emotional state, this is not the fun baby news I am hoping for. Instead of properly answering her, I groan and open the door. Mindy pops to her feet with more agility than I would have expected, given that she’s truly not  _ that _ far off from having given birth. 

“Huh,” she says, in high spirits, as I let us inside. “This apartment is cuter than I remember.” 

I shoot her a glance. “Let’s not.”

She looks sorry, but also not really. “Sorry. What’s the disaster at hand?”

I show her the interior of my drug store bag. She lets out a slow breath. “Oh dang.” 

“Seriously,” I agree.

We flop, in unison, onto the couch. A moment passes, then another. 

“Can I be potentially excited?” Mindy asks. “I want to be potentially excited--imagine that David and your baby--” a squeak breaks out of my throat “--were friends! But also, I don’t want to be excited if you’re not excited.”

I look at the blank television. This is the exact vision that Josh and I see together, basically every night. On one hand, it feels weird that he wasn’t the first person I called. On the other, I’m not sure how to share possible news. And besides, somehow the idea of  _ possible  _ pregnancy feels like it’s maybe women’s business, the kind of thing you share with your best friend; god, I realize with a shock. Mindy is absolutely my best friend. 

It feels impossible to think about how I was once jealous of her. It feels wild to consider how much I love her now. I can’t quite think about the last year-and-change without reeling. 

“I’m...maybe excited. But also definitely scared. Is that bad?”

Mindy looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot on the planet. “Um, no. I was so totally married and Patrick and I were--well, if not trying, at least kind of embracing the possibility of pregnancy?--when I got knocked up. And I was very extremely scared. And then the whole time I was pregnant, I was scared. And then when I went into labor, I was scared. And now I have a human being I’m responsible for! And I am also scared!” She reaches over and holds my hand. “Be scared, it’s cool. But also, you can definitely do it, no matter what ends up happening.” 

“Ugh.” I flop my head against the back of the couch. “That was encouraging and nice and it is really disrupting my stress sulk.” 

She lets go of my hand and shoves me, hard. “Go pee on the sticks, Lucy.”

So I do. 

During the five minute waiting period, Mindy tries to convince me that I should take a shot or three of liquor. 

“I might be…” I trail off, still not fully ready to say the p word. “Also, three shots under the best of circumstances isn’t advisable.” 

“Even if you are, you know…” She does the same trail off that I did, adding in a mocking head bobble, but softening it with a smile. “This means that this is the perfect time to drink. Under six weeks and the zygote hasn’t… something, I dunno, Patrick told me, I forget, but it can’t, like, suck stuff up--and then if you are--” cute head bobble “--you won’t be able to for  _ forever _ , and you’ll feel real dumb for wasting your last chance. A year later and I have to pump and dump and then feel like I’m depriving my child, blah blah blah.”

Nevertheless, I abstain. Mindy has a shot in my place, and then immediately becomes wasted. Pregnancy has destroyed her level of tolerance. 

When the timer goes off, I jolt to my feet. “Baby, baby, baby,” Mindy chants quietly under her breath as she follows me into the bathroom. 

The tests are negative. 

I don’t know how to feel, but I think I am sad. I am relieved, a little. And confused. And suddenly tired. But certainly a tiny bit regretful. Like an idiot, I start to cry and immediately hate myself for it.

From behind me, Mindy wraps her arms around my waist, and rests her chin on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lucy. It’s a weird feeling, to think maybe, even for a few hours, and then realize no.” 

I hold the two tests in my hands. “So weird,” I agree. She squeezes me tighter.

Even though she is definitely, for sure, absolutely drunk, she keeps talking, saying basically exactly the things I need to hear. “It’s the potential, you know? Dudes have it so easy and we’re stuck with all the uncertainty. Same thing happened to me, when Patrick and I were engaged. The timing was terrible, I would have been  _ massively  _ pregnant for our wedding, and still, I was weirdly conflicted when it turned out to be a false alarm.” 

“It’s stupid,” I say. 

“It’s  _ not  _ stupid,” she says. 

I bury the tests deep in the bathroom trash, and then Mindy and I get truly, properly drunk. 

Somewhere in the midst of our aggressive day drinking, I pop a massive bowl of popcorn, and we turn on a Meg Ryan rom-com. When Josh gets home, we are lying down on the couch, my legs thrown over the back of the couch, and Mindy’s propped up on the coffee table. Josh takes one look at us and closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“What?” he asks, with no apparent direction. “Why? And, honestly, how?” 

Mindy laughs, blows us each a kiss, and gets herself a cab home. 

***

I have all but put the issue out of my mind--I hate to call it a pregnancy ‘scare’ even though I was obviously scared shitless, because it seems inconsiderate to the relatively good circumstances I’m in--when, two days later, as I’m trying and failing to focus on some contract minutiae, Josh calls my name from inside the apartment. 

“Lucy!” he calls, and I’m immediately on alert, because he only calls me Lucy when he really means something. I jolt to my feet and am halfway into the bedroom when he meets me with eager strides, eyes intense, and grabs my face in both hands, pressing me in for a searing, heartfelt kiss. 

I sink right into this because, duh, hot boyfriend, hot kiss, but it is nevertheless something of a weird thing for him to do with such urgency on a random evening that we’re spending working on the couch, so when he pulls back I give him a searching look. “What was that for?”

Josh gives me a soft smile, one of his rare ones, one of the ones that makes me love him so intensely it’s sometimes borderline distressing. “When were you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?” 

Josh grabs me by the hand and half-drags me towards the bathroom. I see the white piece of plastic on the counter, wrapped loosely in a few sheets of toilet paper, and startle. “Shortcake, are you pregnant?” 

I hadn’t hidden it, because of course I hadn’t--it wasn’t a secret. But I also hadn’t remembered to mention it to Josh; by the time he had come home the other day, my freak-out had passed, and it hadn’t precisely occurred to me to share this kind of non-news. So naturally I had just thrown out the test, not considering that, to Josh, it would seem like the Chekhov’s gun of impending fatherhood. 

Even though  _ I  _ know I’m not pregnant, I instantly feel a tension in my low back that is the little cousin to a full-scale freak-out. 

“Oh, uh, no. No, I’m not.” 

Something flickers in his expression, but he quickly schools his expression back into neutrality. “Oh,” he says. “Well, uh, you know that this says positive, right?”

“ _ What? _ ” I wish it didn’t it come out as a screech, but it absolutely does. “It was negative when I took it a few days ago.” 

Josh’s expression flickers again. “A few days ago.” His voice is flat and I swear that I am this close to panicking. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I haven’t felt this lost in his understanding since we were enemies. “Oh, that, uh, that makes sense.”

“It does?” Every muscle in my body is tense. I eye Josh’s face so intensely that I’m sure he’s going to call me ‘Horny Eyes’ except he is now also tense, too tense for playing. I am waiting for him to freak out, just as I had freaked out at the possibility of a baby now. 

He looks down at the piece of plastic, still apparently unconcerned by the idea that it is fully soaked in my pee. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “Yeah,” he says, not looking quite at me. “After some time, the tests can show up positive. That’s why they tell you five minutes, instead of looking back at it whenever. I just thought…” He trails off. 

“I’m sorry, Josh.” I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. For not being pregnant? That seems insane. For not telling him? That doesn’t feel quite right either; it wasn’t as though I had done it on purpose. I just know that he looks so strangely wistful, and he won’t quite meet my eye, and I want so badly to fix whatever is hurting. 

“Is it crazy that my first thought was kind of...excited?” he asks very quietly. 

“No,” I say decisively, reaching up to touch his face, to smooth a strand of hair behind his ear. At this moment he seems to need convictions rather than my fears. I make a mental note to tell Mindy that my panic from the other day needs to get locked up in the vault of friendship secrets. “Not crazy at all.” 

Finally he smiles at me, and the relief that courses through me is so pure and obvious that I am slightly afraid that my body will completely collapse. In an instant, a million things become clear. 

It’s me and Josh. 

Whatever happens, we have got it. We have for sure got it. 

Josh moves forward like he’s going to kiss me again, but I make a face. “Um, sorry, I love you, but also, I fully peed on that stick? Could you possibly throw it out and wash your hands before we move to the mushy part of this conversation?”


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to play with more *tropes* so here I present a short, goofy interlude, featuring: overheard in the bathroom, together in an elevator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to all who have sent encouraging comments! I know I have been posting more irregularly recently (I have overlapping work projects that are sucking my time), so I really appreciate your patience in sticking with me! sending love and warm vibes

Chapter Thirty-Two

Somehow, even after the t’s are crossed and the very last i dotted, we still have a shocking number of meetings between the B&G team (read: me and Amanda and, on the days that Amanda is shadowing Suzanne in publicity who, when I told her that Amanda wanted to move to her department said, and I quote, “gimme,” just me) and the Sanderson team. And because my team, such as it is, is smaller (and  _ not  _ I continually resist telling myself, because Sanderson employs pretentious jerks who never think about others) we always meet there.

These meetings are exhausting and frequently pointless--the Sanderson brass mostly just to gloat over our “mutual success” even though I did not meet most of them a single time until after the deal was finalized--but sometimes I get to see Josh, which is nice. And, as I keep reminding myself, I am going to  _ bask  _ in the goddamned glory once this thing is over. 

And today, finally-- _ finally _ \--is the last one. Ten days from now, Bexley and Gamin will have, for the first time, its own literature in translation imprint. 

This also means that ten days from now, I’m gonna be Val Stone’s boss, but I am trying not to focus on that part, as it makes me feel anxious and miserable. Today, at least, I will bask in my accomplishments.

I am dressed today to match this brand of upbeat, positive thinking, in a large, poppy-colored skirt that comes to mid-calf and a white blouse with swiss dots. It’s an outfit that looks a little more ‘lead in a rom-com’ than ‘important business executive’ but I’m Gamin to the bone, and, well, the contracts are signed. It’s too late for the muckity mucks to back out, even if they don’t like the cut of my jib. 

I wave cheerily at Dan, the front desk guard, who recognizes me by now and doesn’t bother checking my ID before buzzing me into the building. I duck into the restroom before I head up to the meeting room. These meetings are  _ long  _ so it’s best to be prepared. 

I’m closed in a stall when the door creaks open again and two cheery-sounding women enter and stop in front of the mirror. 

“This has been the  _ longest  _ week,” one complains. “But there was a Hot Finance Guy sighting, so not all bad.”

“Um, for real,” says the second. “He’s wearing a  _ suit  _ today. I thought I was going to  _ die _ .”

I start to have an extremely funny feeling about what I am overhearing. 

“Seriously,” agrees the first. “I mean  _ yes please,  _ Mr. Templeman.”

I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stop from laughing. 

“You wouldn’t think that his whole angry, broody vibe would brighten my day, but it  _ totally  _ brightens my day.”

“Well, I think it’s his extremely hot face and also extremely hot body that cheers you up, actually. I think he’s married or something, though.”

The second gasps melodramatically. I am delighted. This is going to be such incredible ammunition. My day has officially gone from good to great. “Wait, how do you know? I don’t think he wears a ring?”

“Assistant gossip vine. There’s a picture of a woman on the freaky-clean desk of legend.” 

I flush and step out of the stall to catch the second speaker mid-sigh. “Too bad,” she’s saying. “Good for her, but too bad for the rest of us.” Then she catches my eye in the mirror and blushes. She’s cute, maybe a year or two older than I am, with a dusty blonde pixie cut. “Sorry,” she says, looking embarrassed. 

The other woman, tall with long, dark hair, rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “She gets it. You get it, right?” she says to me as I move to the sink next to her and wash my hands. “I'm sure you’ve worked with hot people before. Sometimes a gentle, private objectification of a co-worker gets you through the day.”

“Trust me,” I tell them, pulling out a tube of Flamethrower. “I absolutely get it.” I take a moment to indulge in the memory of making out in a supply closet on the top floor of B&G. 

The blonde does not look reassured. The pair wash their hands--apparently they came into the bathroom to gossip more than anything--and then head for the door, the brunette giving me a nod over her shoulder as they go. I smile back. 

“We’re perverts,” moans the blonde. “There are now witnesses to our depravity.”

“Just one witness,” I hear the brunette offer before the door clicks shut. 

It is only then that I let myself laugh. By the time I’m done, I have to blot the corners of my eyes and touch up my mascara. 

***

The meeting is interminable. It is, as I predicted, mostly time for various board members to brag about their  _ vision _ and the  _ new era of cooperation  _ and generally say a bunch of buzzwords that bear absolutely no resemblance to the level of work they put in, while turning to look at me just frequently enough that I can’t let the pleasant look drop from my face. 

Even worse, when Josh enters after about an hour of this bloviating, he sits behind me, so I can’t indulge in making meaningful eye contact with him every time a board member says something that is either entirely meaningless or factually baseless. 

Essentially, it is torture. 

After I have aged forty years, lost approximately eighty percent of my will to live, and, I can only assume, fused permanently to the crappy office chair, finally,  _ finally  _ the meeting ends. I shake hands, accept compliments that are really designed to praise the giver rather than, say, me. Eventually, only Josh remains. 

“Thank you so much for all your hard work, Ms. Hutton,” he says in that low, dry voice that used to make me want to punch him, but now makes me feel very different things. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

He makes very intense eye contact as he shakes my hand. The effect is only very slightly undercut by the smile that threatens to twitch up at the corner of his mouth. I can feel the same thing happening on my own face--a barely-suppressed grin, threatening to break free--but I try my best to remain serious. It’s not as though our relationship is a secret--on top of the fact that we’ve both appeared at each other’s work events, we had to disclose to our respective HR departments when such a massive purchase was on the line--but these are our games. We do love to play. I refuse to break first. 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Templeman,” I reply in my most saccharinely polite voice. “It’s been such a pleasure to work with you all.” 

This ends up breaking him. I didn’t expect the win to be so easy, but it doesn’t cheapen it. Luckily, most of the other meeting attendees have shuffled out by now, though one assistant who is tidying up the conference room cuts Josh a baffled sideways glance when he sees him laughing. 

“You filthy liar,” he accuses on a chuckle. He lets go of my hand and reaches around to guide me out through the door with a hand on my back that is frankly not  _ quite  _ professional, but is close enough that it would look professional to an outside observer. “It was barely even a pleasure to work with me.”

“It wasn’t even remotely a pleasure to work with  _ you _ ,” I say archly. “The fun was all working with Mel. You’re a nightmare.”

The hand on my back snakes up to playfully tug on a curl and then it’s my turn to smile as well. 

“All right, Shortcake,” Josh says. “Let me just grab a few things from my office and then I’m thinking we go out to dinner to celebrate your accomplishments? Slash the end to all this madness?”

“Great,” I say. “I’ll wait here.” 

I check my emails on my phone idly while I wait near the elevators; nothing important has come in, but I jot off a few quick replies to various departments about deadlines and things I need from them in the next week. When I come up for air, I notice the blonde from the bathroom hovering nearby, also waiting for the elevator, and trying very obviously not to notice me. 

Well, this is not going to be comfortable for her, I realize. 

Just at that moment, Josh returns, touching my shoulder lightly. “Ready to go, Shortcake?” he asks. 

Over his shoulder, the blonde’s eyes go very, very wide and her face goes very, very pink. The elevator opens, and Josh looks at her, making her, if possible, pinker. “After you, Genevieve,” he says in that cool, polite voice that makes him seem at once very intimidating and very, very hot. I bite back a smile. 

When the elevator doors close, Josh rifles through his shoulder bag for his keys, and I make eye contact with Genevieve behind his back. Her cringing expression when she sees me changes to one of relief--embarrassed relief, but relief nonetheless--when I mime locking my lips and throwing away the key. 

_ Thank you _ , she mouths. I scrunch my nose in a friendly expression that I hope says,  _ please don’t stress, I totally get it, we’ve all had embarrassing overhearing incidents _ , but probably only conveys a fraction of that. I hope she doesn’t think it means I’m laughing at her.

I mean--I  _ am,  _ but only a little, and I hope she doesn’t know it. 

The second the elevator doors open, she bolts, the poor thing. I hope that she is headed to happy hour somewhere with her bathroom pal where they can drink discounted wine until the story transforms from the kind of thing that makes you feel hot all over to cocktail-party comedy:  _ ugh, so I used to have this hot boss, and we were gossiping about it in the bathroom and then his  _ girlfriend  _ comes out of the stall, which of course I didn’t learn later until we were  _ all trapped in an elevator together. __

If romcoms have taught me anything, this kind of embarrassing encounter is an exciting act one for her. 

I hold it together long enough for us to get to the car--and, crucially, to pass a selection of other co-workers, thus preserving Genevieve’s anonymity--before Josh notices me laughing to myself. 

“What?” Josh asks, pulling smoothly into traffic. “ _ What? _ ” he asks more insistently when I giggle harder. 

“You,” I tell him, toying with the ends of his hair so that he can’t miss my meaning, “are a popular man around the office.”

This prompts such a classic Joshua Templeman frown that it sets me off laughing all over again. “I absolutely am not,” he says, clearly intending to sound flat and stern but coming off, to my practiced ear, at least, just a little bit sulky.

“Indeed you are,” I retort. “I have it on good authority via the ladies’ room gossip network.”

Now Josh looks faintly aghast. “People were gossiping about  _ me _ , with  _ you _ , in the  _ ladies’ room _ ?” He doesn’t seem sure which part of this sentence he finds the most scandalizing. 

“Well, to be fair, I don’t think I knew  _ me  _ was  _ me _ , if you get my point. Besides, the things that were said were very nice.”

“This is not happening,” Josh mutters to himself. “I am not having this conversation.”

I’m pretty sure I can actually get him to blush, so I push my advantage. “You’re apparently very in love with your girlfriend--” 

“Well  _ that’s  _ true, at least.”

“--which is apparently a source of great sorrow to women everywhere.”

“Oh my god,” Josh says. “You’re just messing with me, right? Because you’ve seen how I work with others, and it is  _ not well _ , Shortcake. You basically had a voodoo doll of me at one point.”

There’s a Mediterranean place we like near Sanderson, and Josh pulls into the parking lot, likely, I suspect, to distract himself from this conversation. I, naturally, am having the time of my life. 

“I believe the exact words were, ‘Yes please, Mr. Templeman.’”

Josh pulls into a spot, turns off the car, and plants his forehead against his hands where they rest on the steering wheel. “Lucinda. I’m going to not need you to use a sex voice while telling me about someone else’s sex words while also making fun of me, because it is hot, but in a very, very confusing way, and it’s going to get in the way of me going into that restaurant and enjoying my dinner.” The look he gives me begs me for mercy, and he looks so sweet and dreamy that I am inclined to oblige. 

“We could...order in,” I say, tugging gently on his collar. 

The sex voice seals the deal. Josh fumbles the keys in his haste to start the car again. 


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what strangeness is afoot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long break! I am working on keeping going, I am just slammed--so this is short--thank you all for hanging in!!

Chapter Thirty-Three

I know that Josh, Mindy, and really all the Templemans are convinced that Patrick is the easier brother to get along with--to love, even--and I find it continually baffling. I like Patrick, I really do, but sometimes, the dude is fucking weird. 

Right now, for example. 

I’m hanging out with Mindy while Josh is stuck in the office on a weekend, doing some kind of boring money stuff. It is positively disgusting outside, which Mindy and I have taken as a sign that we should continue our  _ Grey’s  _ binge, and she is currently in the baby’s room, trying to put him down for a nap before we watch the ferry boat crash episodes. 

Patrick has been threatened with banishment twice based on the frequency with which he mutters about medical inaccuracies, but so far, he has been permitted to stay in the room, primarily based on the fact that he is leaving soon, anyway, to do some kind of boring medical stuff. 

Man, those Templemans are work nerds. 

At this moment, though, I’m kind of wishing that Mindy had been less merciful in her decree, because Patrick is staring at me with an intensely weird look on his face. 

“You and my brother, huh?” he comments eventually with a benign smile. 

“Um, yeah?” I wonder if Patrick has completely lost the plot. Maybe between the hospital and the baby, the late nights have been getting to him. I’m not sure what else explains this reaction, sixteen months late. 

“Huh,” he says again pleasantly, turning back to his laptop. “You guys seem good together. It’s nice.”

“Uh, thanks, Patrick,” I say, uncertain of how else to respond, or even if this conversation requires my response. 

“I’m just saying, it’s really nice to see Josh so happy. I just think it’s nice.”

Patrick  _ looks  _ kind of like Josh, but sometimes he is so un-Josh-like that talking to him feels like I’m in the twilight zone. 

I’m the one giving him a weird look at this point, so it’s probably good that Mindy returns at this moment. 

“David is asleep, so it’s time for some boat carnage!” she says with more zeal than you might expect from the mother of a newborn. 

We haven’t even seen any real gore when I notice that Patrick is acting enormously twitchy, checking his cell phone every few minutes, constantly fidgeting, unable to focus on his work. After performing this cycle of nervousness a few times, he stands abruptly, exclaims, “Oh look, I’m needed at the hospital!” and then, as Mindy and I watch him in silence--mine slightly shocked, hers bemused--he leaves. 

“Um,” I say, as she moves to hit play on the paused show. “Are you concerned about how that was very obviously a lie?”

“Nah.” Mindy shrugs. “We have a newborn and he is a medical resident, he is  _ way  _ too tired to have an affair or otherwise engage in any questionable behavior. Also, as you have seen, not a very convincing liar. Sometimes I pretend not to notice, let the man have his secrets.”

“That’s very...noble of you,” I say lamely. I wonder if this is what comes of teaming up to raise a tiny human, if this is the kind of blind security that comes from being so permanently connected to a person. And then I think about my ability to look past jealousy and befriend Mindy because I know,  _ know  _ that Josh loves me--and then I think that maybe I kind of understand it, after all. 

When I finish mulling over this, I notice that now  _ Mindy  _ is looking at me really weird. “God, is there something in the water over here,” I grouse, “or are you Templemans just naturally freaks?”

She laughs and kicks me with a fuzzy-sock covered foot.

***

“Okay, well, I adore you, but I think I’m out,” I tell Mindy hours later, after we’ve watched more episodes than is probably healthy, feeding David (Mindy), jiggling David for a while to burp him (Aunt Lucy), jiggling David for a while while he fussed (Mindy), and watching him try to jam an entire teething ring in his mouth (both of us, with many coos of delight). “If I leave now, I can order dinner before Josh gets home from his weird weekend work and makes us eat something healthy.”

“No!” Mindy’s head jolts up from where she is making adoring mommy-eyes at her sleeping (again) son. Then she clears her throat. “Uh, no. I mean, you should stay.” Her eyes dart around. Is this an effect of reproducing? Has having baby David literally driven both Mindy and Patrick out of their minds? I make a mental note to ask Josh if we can offer to take baby David for a night or so so that Mindy and Patrick can get laid or--let’s be real--get some sleep. 

Or both. Given today’s level of crazy, they may need both. 

“Well,” I say gently, like I’m trying not to spook her, “I actually think I  _ am  _ gonna go? To my own home? Where I live and don’t have to wear a bra?”

“You can take your bra off here! I’ve done it three times today already!”

“One, you’re a nursing mother, so it really is different, and two, I think your husband only today figured out why I’m around so much, so if he came home to find me braless he might call the cops, so maybe let’s put a pin in that.”

She glances at her phone. “It’s early?” She looks hopeful for a minute, and then sees the expression on my face, which feels as though it would be best described as “wigged out.” “Yeah, yeah, okay, sorry, please still be my friend after this.”

I grab my purse and slip on my shoes. “I mean, you obviously are an insane person, but I’ll probably be back. Someday.” Then I pop one kiss on David’s head and another one on Mindy’s and head for the door. “Actually, though, the next time Patrick has a day off, saddle him with that sweet baby boy and we’ll go out. I’m starting to worry you’ve been home too long.” 

“Yes! I need a practice run on interacting with adults before I go back to work.”

I blow her a kiss and leave. I’m so glad I’m friends with that little weirdo. 

On my way down to the car, I text Josh. 

**Lucy Hutton:** Leaving Mindy’s and I don’t know when you’re gonna be home but I am hungry so I am going to order Chinese

**Lucy Hutton:** I am silencing my phone and not looking at my texts so don’t bother telling me about how we ‘should cook’ because it’s ‘better for us’

**Lucy Hutton:** I recognize this transparent ploy let’s agree not to speak of it

At the last minute I end up  _ picking up  _ Chinese food (commending myself on my responsibility over saving on delivery fees) when I pass that  _ really good  _ place. I feel as though I cannot be blamed for buying extra dumplings. 

And I really feel that I should be commended for not eating any on my way home. I truly pity whoever takes the elevator in our building after me, because it’s gonna smell so delicious and they  _ won’t ever know why _ . 

The delicious aroma must be going to my head, because when I open the door to see Josh standing right behind it, I almost drop my precious dumpling bundle. His eyes go wide and he jumps, apparently just as surprised to see me. “Lucy, hi!”

“God!” I exclaim. “I didn’t expect you to be home yet.” I cast an eye over his outfit. “Or in regular clothes. Why didn’t you tell me that you got out of work early?”

He clears his throat. “Um, I didn’t. I just--” he looks at his jeans lack of shoes “--went in casual clothes. Nobody was in. It’s the weekend.”

And I have hit the trifecta on weird behavior. Is there something…in the air?

“Yeah, okay.” I hold up the takeout bag. “I went to the good place, though. Yay?”

His surprised, stressed face melts into the face of my regular Josh. “Great, that sounds great, Shortcake.” Then his expression grows even softer and he reaches for me and pulls me in for a kiss that makes me, just for a moment, forget even my dumplings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...........well, everyone is being weird, no?? what do we think is afoot?


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok this is basically just a lil drabble chapter (a real one is in the works) bc the weather is still hot and I want it to be baking season

Chapter Thirty-Four

The single very worst feature of my and Josh’s apartment was that the tiny wrought iron detail outside our bedroom window--a visually charming element on a prewar building with some character--proved to be the exact perfect spot for Satan’s own pet bird to build its hellish nest and, consequently, chirp loudly as hell at the ass crack of dawn. 

The single very worst feature of Josh was that his brain,  _ one single day  _ after the damn bird arrived , learned to ignore this impediment to sleep. 

And the single very worst feature of me was that, after very many days, could not ignore it. 

This was how I found myself staring at the ceiling on a Sunday morning before it was even full light out, with Josh, his face scrunched adorably in sleep, contentedly snuggled up besides me. Looking at him gave me a highly contradictory rush of extreme love--he was so precious and soft when he was asleep, a time-lapse version of the flashes of softness that he so rarely let out in mixed company, that special, sweet version of Josh that was, for the most part, all mine--and furious loathing over the fact that he was succeeding so effortlessly at doing the precise thing that I wanted to be doing, but couldn’t. 

I had less complicated feelings about Hellbird. 

Grumpily--but carefully, to avoid waking Josh, who immediately snuggled into the warm spot I had vacated--and fantasizing about violent methods of birdicide, I dragged myself out of bed, shut the door gently behind me, and shuffled into the kitchen, snagging an afghan off the back of the couch as I went. I put on the kettle and wrap myself into a petulant little burrito. At the last minute, I grab my favorite cookbook from where it has been long-neglected in its home next to the microwave that Josh never lets us use. (“I don’t even know why we have it, Shortcake. It doesn’t heat the food evenly. Why not take the time to use the stove or oven and have decent food?” Frankly, the argument effectively ruins any potential speed gained by actually using the microwave to the point where  _ I  _ don’t even know why we have it.) 

It’s been too long since I’ve baked anything. Obviously my life has unequivocally gotten better in the last year--the nights that I would have previously spent elbow-deep in homemade frosting or cookie dough I now spend letting Josh explain the medical inaccuracies in  _ ER  _ as we curl up on the couch, or goofing around with Mindy either in person or via text, or working on this 5,000 piece puzzle that Josh impulse-bought at a craft fair because he didn’t realize that he becomes immediately frustrated with puzzles and neither of us realized that I would become almost impossibly obsessed with finishing it--but I realized that I missed it, the soothing precision of measuring out ingredients, of folding and beating everything together, of the anticipation when you can smell your delicious handiwork in the oven but can’t eat it yet. 

Yes, I think, as I flip through the glossy, slightly sticky pages. This is a good idea.

Take that, ya damn bird. See if  _ you  _ get any cookies. 

I decide on confetti cookies--sweet, both soft and a little crunchy on the outside, colorful, and richly vanilla-flavored--and feel my early morning irritation melt away as I sink into the ritual of it. The mixer--my prized possession--is humming merrily and so am I, halfway through my second cup of tea, when I suddenly feel a pair of hands on my waist. 

I give a muffled little shriek and my thankfully-now-lukewarm tea goes flying. 

So much for my morning calm. 

“Oh my god, Templeman,” I gasp, pressing a hand to my heart like I’m overwrought and out of a romance novel. “Wear a bell, or something. That took a year off my life.”

He pulls me snugly back into him and kisses my neck. I can feel from the tense lines of his body that he is trying very, very hard not to laugh. 

“Sorry, Shortcake,” he mumbles against my neck, not sounding  _ even a little bit sorry _ . “You smell very good this morning.”

“It’s not me, it’s the cookies.” My toes are still wet so I want to stay cross but my pulse is starting to race for an entirely different reason, so I can feel my resolve weakening.

This is one of those days where I want to hate him for being so lovely, for turning a Sunday morning into an exercise in affection, for the fact that he is so unbearably hot that even though I am determined to be mad, and that I am the kind of jerk who wants to be mad at my lovely, sweet boyfriend. 

“No,” Josh argues. Hm, yes. He’s argumentative. That’s one of his terrible qualities. “I’m pretty sure it’s you, Shortcake.”

“I hate that nickname,” I grouse. 

“You  _ love  _ that nickname.” And then he  _ bites me _ . 

Bites. Me. 

I growl a little growl and now he is fully laughing and I spin in his arms and shove at his chest and he doesn’t budge and I have to bury my face in his chest to hide the fact that, despite my best efforts, a smile is trying to break free. 

“You suck,” I complain. “I wanted to sleep! But that stupid bird. And you got to sleep. So you suck.” 

Josh’s hands slide up from my waist and knead gently up my back, to my shoulders, to the back of my neck. He winds his fingers through my hair, loosening my low bun, and uses his grip to tilt my face up to his. I quickly rearrange my expression into a grouchy scowl. Can’t let him off too easily, the well-rested monster that he is. “We could go back to bed,” he says, giving his eyebrows an exaggerated waggle. He’s clearly trying to sound seductive, but he is also in a good enough mood that he can’t keep the smile off his face, which, obviously, makes him deeply seductive. 

“Cookies,” I say, pouting. “Cooooooooookies.”

He laughs. “Okay, Shortcake.” He pops a kiss on my nose. “Cooooookies, then bed.”

But the dough has to chill, so it ends up being bed then cookies, which is frankly even better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok just want to say THANK YOU THANK YOU to everyone who has been leaving comments and notes and kudos! I haven't been replying immediately always, but I DO see them and they DO fill my heart with joy! even if it sometimes has the APPEARANCE that I have abandoned this fic, I promise that I have not! (I also write as part of my job and even though they are very different kinds of writing, sometimes at the end of the day I am just...written out so I really really am so grateful for your patience.)


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you are in the US like me, today you maybe need a distraction. so here's some babysitting fluff to hopefully give you a few soothing minutes

Chapter Thirty-Five 

“Okay, so the phone numbers are on the fridge: mine, Patrick’s--”

“Um, we have your phone numbers. We correspond regularly.”

“--the doctor, Elaine and Anthony--”

“Also known as my parents, so I do have their numbers, too.”

“--and poison control.”

Mindy is spiraling a little over leaving baby David for the first time. In her words--not now, but earlier, when she wasn’t a frantic bundle of nerves in a cocktail dress that makes her nursing boobs look  _ incredible _ \-- “those post-partum hormones are a  _ bitch _ .” Patrick, Josh, and I are all united in a project of soothing. 

I only had to offer four or five times before Mindy agreed that Josh and I, responsible adults with good jobs and no criminal records, were suitable to watch her little bundle of joy for a night while she and Patrick take a night to themselves. And not a moment too soon, in my personal opinion, given that I had caught her humming nursery rhymes to herself recently while David wasn’t even in the room. Patrick agrees, if the slightly frantic look in his eye was any indication. 

“Min,” he says gently, tugging her lightly towards the door, as if he can get her to leave without her noticing that it’s happening. This is a questionable strategy at best, given that Mindy is currently _holding_ the very baby they need a night away from. “Josh and Lucy are not going to _poison_ David. For one, he only eats breastmilk and baby mush, and for another, they are not going to poison our son.” 

“This is true,” I agree. “We will take very good care of him.” 

“I’ve never had a namesake before,” Josh says. “I’m not about to take a risk with this one.”

Patrick and I send him simultaneous censorious looks. This is not the time for joking. 

But, oddly enough, this seems to break Mindy, just a little, out of her frantic funk. “Right, sorry. I know I’m being nuts. It’s just--” she presses a kiss to David’s head and he lets out an adorable little gurgling sound “--I grew him and also he’s my heart outside my body blah blah blah. But I trust you, obviously, and I obviously need to take a breather and--” She cuts off and turns her head towards the door dramatically. “Just take him from my arms, Lucinda, before I change my mind.”

“Since when do you call me ‘Lucinda?’” I grouse, but scoop up David, who, as usual, immediately grabs my hair. He seems transfixed by my curls. Most of the time I catch him before he sticks one in his mouth. 

Mindy watches this like she is watching something adorable but also agonizing. “I think it gives you gravitas. Also it annoys you, which is funny.” I stick out my tongue at her and Josh gently untangles David’s chubby baby fists from my hair. This tableau of adorableness finally seems to crack Mindy. “Okay, okay,” she says, darting forward to give David’s head one last kiss. “I am going to go have adult fun with my husband.”

“Gross,” Josh comments mildly.

“Text if you’re worried and I’ll respond right away--unless I’m asleep,” I amend, “which will be good because it means David is also asleep, and, yes, we have the monitor and know how to use it.”

“Okay,” Mindy says, picking up her overnight bag. “Okay. I will try to restrain myself. Okay. For real. Goodbye this time.”

There is one more moment of uncertainty when it seems like we might not yet be out of the woods--Patrick’s kiss to David is just a little too lingering to suggest that he is precisely as chill with a night away from his son as he has been pretending to be in the face of his wife’s anxiety--but Mindy, now in the hallway, calls, “Nope! The next freak out belongs to you, Patrick, but you can’t coopt mine!” and Patrick, ever practical, pops three quick kisses on David’s head and then follows his wife, closing the front door firmly behind him. 

“Fifty-fifty they come back?” Josh asks, making a truly adorable face that makes David giggle. 

“Oh, for sure.”

We had all agreed (well, Josh had suggested and Patrick and Mindy had both looked at him like he was the smartest man alive) that it made the most sense for Josh and I to spend the night at Mindy’s and Patrick’s apartment, as it was much easier and more reasonable to ask two adults to spend the evening in a perfectly nice guest room (“I’m gonna eat all your good shit,” Josh cautioned his brother. “Please do,” Mindy countered. “I can’t have half of it while I’m nursing anyway, and I’m acutely jealous, so if you eat it, it actively preserves my marriage.”) than to ask a baby who had  _ only just  _ started sleeping through the night to suddenly do so in a new setting with new-ish people. 

And that was even before we accounted for the sheer amount of  _ stuff _ that babies needed, none of which was currently accounted for at our place. 

Josh had been charmingly excited about babysitting; the phrases “my namesake” and “my nephew” had become increasingly bandied around during the last week. There was something about a hot guy really loving a baby that aggressively did things to me. 

Honestly, if Josh acquired even  _ one more  _ attractive quality… 

After about ten minutes of standing around near the entryway, we are reasonably assured that Mindy and Patrick are not, in fact, coming back, and David, no longer quite so entranced by my hair, starts to fuss. I glance at my watch. “I’ll go make his dinner,” I say, passing the baby over to Josh. 

“There are instructions on the fridge,” Josh adds dryly. 

“Good reminder.” I nod solemnly. “I wonder what other information is on the fridge?”

“I’m fairly sure she left us the secret of life there.”

I am only halfway through mixing some gross-looking mushed peas and that gross-looking baby cereal goo when an unhappy fussing noise emerges from the living room. I grab the cutesy baby spoon--the handle is an octopus--and by the time I make it back to the living room, David is fully wailing and Josh is looking completely horrified. 

“I made him cry,” he says helplessly. 

I feel firmly that I cannot be blamed for melting a tiny bit. 

“He’s probably just hungry,” I say in that bright cheery voice that you use when you’re trying to convince an upset baby that they should try to be less upset using tone alone. “Just another minute until food is ready, sweet boy.” 

Josh tries to give David an encouraging jiggle. It does not work.

Things...devolve from there.

I am not nervous around babies. I babysat all through high school, like any other rural teenage girl with limited employment prospects. I have dealt with happy babies, cranky babies, teething babies, and one that possessed an uncanny sixth sense for whenever I started to work on my most challenging homework and would start wailing accordingly. 

Josh, a city-bred white boy from a well-off family, has distinctly less experience. 

And so, while I remain secure in the knowledge that David is crying because he is, one, a baby, who is, two, missing his parents, Josh becomes increasingly distressed. 

“Are you  _ sure  _ something isn’t wrong?” he asks after about forty minutes during which David has only stopped wailing in the few instances that I have been able to coax him into accepting a mouthful of food. Josh clutches Mindy’s list of information like it is a lifeline.

“I am quite sure,” I reassure him as I rub soothing circles on David’s back as he hiccups miserably into my neck. “He doesn’t have a fever, he doesn’t need a diaper change. He might be hungry, but if he were  _ that  _ hungry, he would eat more. He might also be tired, which would make him cranky, but again, if he were  _ that  _ tired, he would cry himself to sleep.”

Josh scans the list for the umpteenth time, like it might hold some sort of secret message that he missed the first hundred times he read it. He runs a hand through his hair, which stands a bit wild from the first hundred times he has done  _ that _ . 

“You know,” I offer, as I rock David, whose hiccups are starting to subside just a tiny bit. I pull the bowl of his food towards me and offer him another spoonful. He looks at me reproachfully, as if I demand chastisement for the sin of not being his mom, but takes a bit of the food, and only spits out about a third of it, which I wipe away with his bib. “Babies have a good sense for when you’re freaking out. Why don’t you have a drink? Or go take a walk?”

This does not seem to reassure Josh and, accordingly, David starts to let out some weepy noises, like he’s gearing up for some more crying. “Are you saying that my  _ very presence  _ is upsetting the baby? And that the solutions are to  _ drink  _ or  _ abandon him _ ?” 

“Dude. Seriously.” I hold his gaze until he takes a deep breath.

“I am feeling like a very bad uncle-slash-babysitter,” he admits. 

“Buck up, Buttercup,” I tell him, a bit ruthlessly, but, well, David is hoarding all of my soothing abilities at the moment. “He’s a baby. Babies cry. It’s possible that he’s pissed that you aren’t his mother, and it’s possible that he’s pissed that his tiny brain and body have to learn how to be a person day after day and he doesn’t yet have the linguistic capabilities to express in a clearer format how frustrating that is. It’s fine. Stop freaking out.”

Maybe I should not be surprised, given our entire history, but Josh responds positively to my sort-of-mean energy. He rubs one final hand over his face and then straightens his posture in an expression of unmistakable determination. “Right, yes. Sorry, Shortcake. Let me take a turn trying to get him to eat.”

Because I am not Josh, and I have not tied my sense of self nearly as acutely into stopping this baby’s tears, I had the little guy right over. 

David spends a few seconds looking interested in this change--a sure sign that it’s cranky crying instead of ill or hurt crying, which is a nice reassurance even if I wasn’t actually worried--and even lets Josh give him another two mouthfuls of food before starting to cry again, which seems to make them both feel a bit better. While the two of them regard each other in slightly doubtful, wary mutual assessment, I raid Patrick and Mindy’s fridge, pilfering a bit of fancy cheese and some crackers, and preheating the oven according to the directions on a lasagne labelled “eat me, i’m delicious xo chef patrick” in what is clearly Mindy’s handwriting. 

By the time the lasagne is finished, David has more or less tuckered himself out with the constant wailing, and has resigned himself more to intermittent wailing, which leaves Josh looking very pleased with himself, and increasingly so every time he convinces David to turn away from where he is snotting up the shoulder of Josh’s t-shirt and down another bite of his dinner. We had long since given up the pretense of a high chair; any ‘normal schedule’ of the baby’s evening was shot the moment his parents walked out the door--and also, when I had tried to put him in before, at the start of the dinner ordeal, he had resisted mightily, kicking me directly in the boob with surprising strength and precision for an infant. 

Besides, I reasoned to Josh, good habits were for parents, not doting aunts and uncles. 

“What if they never let us babysit again?” Josh asked fretfully when I pushed the high chair aside. 

“Trust me,” I’d said as I’d settled David on my lap. “They will let us babysit again.” 

Two hours and something like three quarters of David’s dinner later, Josh seemed somewhat less cheered by the prospect.

And yet, simultaneously, he was obviously so perfectly in love with his baby nephew that I couldn’t help but melt a little. 

Patrick’s lasagne  _ is  _ quite good--Josh grumbles a bit about how he could do better, but in a halfhearted, obligatory-little-brother kind of way--and David happily mashes a handful of the tomato-y, cheesy, innards more  _ near  _ his mouth than  _ in  _ it. I can hardly blame him for finding it more appetizing than his sad baby mush. Or maybe he just likes making a mess. And, frankly, who can blame him. 

There is a  _ really  _ cute interlude when we give David a bath. For a tiny baby, he is shockingly effective at getting water  _ everywhere _ , and by the time we manage to rinse the shampoo out of his hair--a task David appears to find simply hilarious--Josh’s t-shirt is more than half-soaked. 

“You could always take it off?” I suggest with a smirk as he looks down at the patches in dismay.

“Not in front of the baby, Horny Eyes,” Josh jokingly scolds, pretending to cover David’s ears. David slaps the water joyfully and Josh sends him a look of pure fondness. 

Well  _ now  _ I probably have horny eyes. I mean  _ seriously _ . Seriously. 

The bath makes David all warm and soft and snuggly, and I cuddle him in his adorable baby towel with a hood with teddy bear ears before easing him into his pyjamas. By the time Josh returns from changing into a dry shirt, David has settled into that drowsy limpness that only very small children can manage. He somehow feels twice as heavy as he was when he was fully awake and I can’t help but sniff his head. He smells like baby shampoo and comfort. 

I have a brief flash of an alternate life where I didn’t get a stomach flu on just the right day, or didn’t lie to Josh about my date with Danny Fletcher. It seems impossible that I could have ended up in a world where I didn’t live in our cozy little blue-walled apartment, where I didn’t love this sweet little bundle, where Josh didn’t reach out and tuck a curl behind my ear, wrinkling his nose at me softly as I hum a little against David’s hair. 

“We should probably start tucking this little fellow into bed,” Josh says softly. He crouches in front of the rocking chair where I’m sitting, his hand resting casually against my leg. 

No, that other world was always impossible. We were always going to end up right here--for a moment, it feels completely inevitable. And for that same moment, I can see a whole future stretching out ahead of us and it is so lovely that it almost breaks my heart a little. 

I’ve always been just a little bit sappy when it comes to babies. 

I had David off to Josh before I get  _ too  _ hopped up on hormones, and the baby lets out a sleepy, happy nonsense syllable. Josh gives a sweet smile and it is perfect perfect perfect. 

Thirty minutes later, this kind of perfection--or even just peace, or even just the absence of nerve-jangling shrieking--is a distant memory. 

Baby David, as it turns out, objects strenuously to being left in his crib. 

Mindy, with some marginalia from Patrick, has left a series of suggestions for what to do in the case of an “epic shrieky meltdown.” (Patrick here has doodled an angry-looking baby that somehow really captures the  _ essence _ of the experience we’re having right now.) We consult this list with the reverence of religious scholars consulting a holy text because  _ wow _ , David’s earlier screams have nothing on what he sounds like now. 

“Okay,” Josh says. Half his hair is standing straight up. I barely recognize us as the human adults who, less than an hour ago, were watching David happily splash and--dare I say it?--feeling like we were doing okay at this whole babysitting thing. “We’ve given him Doctor Tiger--” this is, as his name suggests, a stuffed tiger in a doctor’s scrubs and one of those head reflectors that haven’t been worn by doctors in like a century “--we sang ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’ and we’ve put on that noise thing that makes you feel like you have to pee.” Now that he mentioned it, that thing kind of  _ did  _ make me feel like I had to pee. “What’s next?” He gave David an encouraging sort of jostle. David responded to this by flailing his entire body in fury.

“Pacing,” I say. Obligingly, Josh starts moving back and forth with a little bounce in his step. It puts exactly zero dent in David’s level of noise.

My logic brain tries to remind me that I have dealt with fussy babies before and that I  _ know _ that eventually he will calm down. The part of me that is a victim of my own biology, though, feels these screams like nails on the chalkboard of my brain. My logic brain retorts that this is an important evolutionary function because babies, though cute, are  _ super  _ needy and sometimes demand your attention even when it is, you know, pretty late and you’re really tired and so they figured out some kind of murderous pitch of sound that fills you with an absolute desperation to make them happy so they will  _ just stop crying _ . By this point, my logic brain has obviously also lost the plot. It really is quite loud screaming. 

Pacing makes no difference. Humming various soothing tunes while rocking in the rocking chair makes no difference. Leaving him for a few minutes and seeing if he cries himself to sleep--somehow this is the most nerve-wracking of them all--makes no difference. Eventually we just sort of stick with the pacing because it gives off the impression that maybe, possibly we might help somehow, if we just stick at it. When Josh starts to look like he’s about to maybe actually cry, I spell him for a while. 

David’s cries slowly morph from angry cries to overtired cries. It remains unclear whether this is a good sign or a bad one. I glance at my watch. It is only 10:45 at night. 

Oh, okay, so we’re going to die. Got it. 

Josh has taken the baby back and I am sipping a cup of chamomile tea like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the mortal plane when the crying actually starts to stop. 

For a second there I literally hold my breath. 

When Josh emerges from the nursery, he looks like a man returned from the wars. “He finally went down!” he tells me in a deeply excited whisper. “When I tried to put him in the crib I thought he was going to wake up for a minute, but then I real quick handed him Doctor Tiger and he settled back down!” 

“You’re a genius,” I whisper back, and mean it. I really suspect that I have never appreciated him more. 

So it is with the self-satisfied air of someone who has triumphed over a great enemy that we stumble into Mindy and Patrick’s guest room and fall blissfully asleep. 

For about forty-five minutes. Then we are awoken by the jarring alarm of a screaming baby. 

“No,” Josh mumbles into his pillow. “No. No. Please no.”

“Mindy said he was sleeping through the night!” My voice cracks a little. 

“They are lying, lying liars.” 

I am a deeply generous person, so I throw back the covers. “You got him to go to sleep last. I’ll try.” 

“I love you,” Josh moans, heartfelt. His breathing settles back into the heaviness of sleep before I’ve even left the room. This  _ somewhat  _ undercuts my warm feelings towards him in this exact moment. 

This particular batch of tears is slightly different from the last. This time, it appears that all David really wants is to be held; he quiets down quickly when I pick him up, but immediately takes up wailing again the instant I try to put him back in the crib. After a few false starts and stops of this, I grab a handful of pillows and prop myself up on the couch so that I can hold him and sort of doze at the same time. It is definitely, obviously better than being fully away, but it’s definitely not restful sleep. Every time I start to properly slip into sleep, I jolt awake, suddenly terrified that I’ll drop the baby, or roll over on him, or otherwise cause a calamity that I have not yet even considered. 

By the time I actually get David to go back in his crib, we have entered the period of wee hours that you don’t particularly want to see from either side. If you’re still awake, you’ve been up way too long, and if you’re already up, you’re out of bed way too soon. 

I ponder this for only a limited time before I all but collapse in exhaustion into bed beside Josh. 

The next thing I hear is more baby noises, and a jolt of adrenaline shoots through my system before I realise that, one, it is morning, two, the noises are relatively happy, and three, that Josh is not in bed beside me. I feel so tired that it seems possible that I might  _ literally die,  _ but that shot of panic has vaulted me into full consciousness, so I drag the sad sack of limpness that used to be my body out of bed and into the kitchen where Josh is cooking and David is having a seemingly intense baby-babble conversation with a toy duck. This latter behavior is punctuated by periodically banging the duck with considerable force against the tray of his high chair. 

“So the difference,” Josh is narrating, “between an omelette and scrambled eggs, is that with an  _ om _ elette you  _ om _ it the milk. Isn’t that handy? Easy to remember, huh?”

“Gah!” David agrees. 

“I think so, too. Normally, your Auntie Lucy and I like an omelette with lots of veggies, but your momma says that you can have a little bit of scrambled eggs, so that’s what we’re making. Also, your parents’ fridge is a little sad. That’s probably your fault for keeping them so busy, bud.” 

David makes another little interested babble. 

I lean against the wall in the entryway to the kitchen, just watching for a moment. If not for the bone-deep ache in my entire body, it would be like last night had never even happened. 

That flicker of a future shows up again. I smile. 

Josh glances over his shoulder and spots me. “Hey Shortcake.” He tosses the dishrag in his hands over his shoulder and for a moment he is so much the picture of hot domestic masculinity that it’s borderline inappropriate. “I made you some coffee, figured you’d need the extra jolt this morning.”

“Thanks.” I accept the mug, hot and so sweet and milky that it should probably barely count as coffee and sip it appreciatively. 

Josh brushes a kiss against the side of my head as he turns back to the stove. “No, thank you for getting up last night. I tried to let you sleep, sorry if we woke you up.”

I flop into a kitchen chair, waving off the apology. “It’s fine. I mean, it super sucked and I am maybe a ghost of your former girlfriend, and that baby is superhuman, but it’s fine. I accept this coffee as sufficient apology.”

“Oh so no eggs for Auntie Lucy, then!” Josh says with a conspiratorial brightness with to David. “More for us, then.”

“Don’t you dare.” I snatch the plate full of eggs and toast out of Josh’s hand and he laughs. 

We eat and David smashes handfuls of cooled-down scrambled eggs around his tray. A few pieces make it into his mouth. He is messy and adorable. I snap a picture. 

“Do you think we should give him a bath?” I ask when we’re done eating. I’m trying to wipe his hands and face with a damp dish cloth, but he has well and truly gotten eggs  _ everywhere _ . 

“Not a chance.” Josh sticks his head in the kitchen, our bags in his hand. “That’s his parents’ problem. Also is this ours?” He holds up a tube of toothpaste. 

“No,” I reply. 

“Is it even the kind we have?”

“Still no.”

“I like it. Can we steal it?”

“Sure.”

We have only just completed this act of grand larceny when Mindy and Patrick arrive home, a few hours earlier than we were supposed to expect them. Mindy, bless her, looks all glowy and like a night’s break did her all the good in the world. We barely get a glimpse of Patrick before he brushes past us both and scoops David into his arms. 

“Hi baby,” he coos--coos! I share a delighted grin with Josh. I didn’t know Patrick had it in him. “Did you miss us?” He blinks at Josh and me like he’s just noticed us. “Oh, hi. Lucy, you look terrible.”

Ah. There it is. 

It’s just so classically Patrick that it kind of makes me smile, but Josh (a growled “watch yourself”) and Mindy (an exasperated “for God’s sake, Patrick, we’ve talked about this”) react simultaneously. 

Patrick, to his credit, looks chagrined. “Sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean bad. Just tired. Did this little dude--” he gives David a little jiggle “--keep you up all night?”

I bobble my head in a  _ more or less _ kind of gesture, while Josh, apparently not prepared to quite forgive his brother yet, mutters, “yes,  _ Patrick _ ,  _ my _ girlfriend, who  _ you _ just insulted was indeed up all night with  _ your  _ baby.” 

Mindy and I roll our eyes simultaneously. Patrick, bless him, ignores it completely. “See, Min? I knew it was the right thing to come home early. The little dude missed us.” 

“Patrick has really taken to fatherhood,” Mindy comments dryly, but her expression is unspeakably fond. 

We make friendly chitchat--which is to say, Mindy gives me the download on their night away (“We got wasted and made out like teenagers. Well, I was halfway through my second glass of wine and I couldn’t see straight because I haven’t drank in a year and then I had to pump and dump, so not  _ exactly  _ like when I was a teenager, but you know. Also it was wine and not a strawberry wine cooler, so I guess not like when I was a teenager at all.”) while Patrick and Josh retire to the couch to play an extremely adorable game of peekaboo with David that quickly devolves into banter over who is better at a game literally designed for infants--until the caffeine buzz starts to wear off and the bone-deep exhaustion tries to settle back in. 

“I am going to pass out,” I tell Mindy. “Do you feel like this all the time?”

“Pretty much. But look at that face.”

“Worth it,” I agree.

We head out, Patrick moving David’s chubby little hand to wave us off, and pack ourselves into the car. “I can’t get enough of that baby,” I mumble. My head lolls a little against the window and I have rarely been so grateful to have such a wild bed of curls as I am in this moment. 

“Yeah.” Josh reaches out and tucks a curl behind my ear. He pulls out of the parking lot. “Patrick’s a good dad.” 

“Hm, yeah.” Then I have to chuckle. “But he is going to embarrass that kid so much when he’s older.”

“Oh my god, and he will have no idea.”

“Oh, not a chance.”

“If you had told me when I first met Mindy that she would someday be somebody’s cool parent…” Josh laughs and shakes his head as he merges into traffic. 

“Mindy’s cool!” 

And Josh, bless him, looks a tiny bit affronted. “Okay, yeah, compared to Patrick. Not compared to  _ me _ .”

This is almost as good as a cup of coffee. I laugh so hard I am afraid I’m going to pee. “Oh, Josh,” I gasp.

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” he insists. 

“Oh, my sweet Josh.” This is how I die. “You are so many things. I love you very much.”

“Cool is one of them!” he interjects, in what surely is the least cool move ever. 

“You’re cooler than Patrick,” I offer, but somehow this seems to offend him even more. 

“Everyone is cooler than Patrick! Our grandma is cooler than Patrick!” As he says this, though, even he starts to laugh. “When we have kids, I’ll be the cool parent!” 

We are both cracking up at this point. “Oh, no, those suckers will never have a chance.” 

At a red light, Josh pulls me in for a quick kiss. It’s awkward; my nose is scrunched up, and I can feel his smile, and both our shoulders are shaking and the center console between us blocks any real access to each other. It’s perfect. “I think they’re gonna be pretty great, actually.” And he’s so right that we just make goofy besotted eye contact until the light turns green.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! I know I have been mia for ages but life has been somewhat bonkers the last few months but hopefully this update makes up for it! 
> 
> juste a note: this is probably the smuttiest this fic has gotten so far, so if that's not your thing, you might want to stop reading at the point where they get back to their apartment!

Chapter Thirty-Six

The last few weeks before Amanda’s promotion are among the most hectic I’ve had since being promoted to COO. A batch of titles from the digitization project are due to be released, which means coordinating with just about every department we have, there’s an acquisitions snafu in our new imprint that isn’t a problem so much as a hassle, and Amanda is wrapped up in training her replacement, Abe, a cheerful, somewhat dorky young guy she knows through a networking organization for publishing assistants. Trying to do all this with a hamstringed assistant desk is a bleak view of what my work life might look like without Amanda, but she assures me that Abe is a quick learner. 

“He got stuck in the internship circuit for a while,” she confides to me one evening when we’re scrambling after hours to get everything done. “And I think he was going to end up being forced to take a random business job, so he’s really motivated. And you’re both from, like, Iowa or whatever, so you can bond over that.”

“I feel like I should be offended,” I say, and Amanda waves an unconcerned hand. I make some faux-affronted mumbles about “being respected by my assistant” and “when is Abe’s start date again” and she snickers. 

Even though Amanda is really going above and beyond, trying to get Tony up to speed and getting all her own projects cleared before her new position’s start date, there’s about a week where I find myself totally swamped. “I used to have a girlfriend who looked a lot like you,” Josh jokes one night when I drag myself home at nearly ten and flop face-down on the couch, my feet in his lap. “Lulu, I think her name was? Linda? Something like that.” 

I am too tired to come up with any kind of snarky or clever comeback, so I flip him off as an estimation of my current state of mind. When he laughs good-naturedly, I consider kicking him, but fall asleep midway through my internal debate. 

The next morning, when I drag myself out of bed before the sun is even up, leaving Josh happily sleeping, I find that he has packed me a lunch, with a post-it note on the front that says “for what’s-her-name.” I can just  _ picture _ how pleased with himself he must have been over that one. 

And then, just as I become certain that my work life will always be this way--maybe always has been this way, maybe my life before was just some sort of fugue state or spreadsheet-induced hallucination--things shift. Amanda’s official last day arrives--I take her out for drinks as a thank-you and she says such nice things that I find myself blinking back tears as she mutters, “Oh my god, Lucy,  _ don’t _ ,” in a way that I suspect belies real emotion--and Abe starts, proving, as Amanda promised, himself efficient and motivated. 

Abe is tall, almost ridiculously so, and gangly, relatively quiet most of the time, but occasionally bursts out in razor-sharp wit. The first time I hear him make such a comment, it surprises me so much that I choke on the tea I had just gotten myself. Abe blushes all the way to his halo of curls, worn naturally. “Oh my god, Lucy, I’m so sor--” He looks like he wants to vanish through the floor, but cuts himself off when I wave him off, and fidgets with the cuffs of his sweater.

Abe is something of a perfect blend of a Bexley and a Gamin--his background is in business, but his heart is in books--and he dresses accordingly, paring professional button-downs with sweaters that sometimes tiptoe ever so delicately into the realm of the whimsical. I find myself pondering this one day before I realize with a jolt that Abe isn’t a Bexley  _ or  _ a Gamin--he’s a B&G hire. The merger, which for so long loomed as the big event of my professional life, is ages gone. I realize with another jolt that I am maybe getting kind of old. 

“That was really funny,” I tell him. He blushes harder. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” He smiles sheepishly.

“Great work, Abraham Larssen,” I hear him mutter to himself as I go back into my office. “Just truly a bang-up job.” I bite my lip against another laugh, lest I embarrass him any more. 

Happily-- _ finally _ \--things fall into a rhythm. I finally get to spend my evenings with Josh again, and we spend one weekend afternoon at Mindy and Patrick’s, cooing over David, who is growing like a weed. When we arrive, Mindy puts her hands solemnly on my shoulders. “You look so familiar,” she says, “I swear I used to know someone--”

“Sorry, Min,” Josh interrupts. “Already made that joke.” 

“Dang,” she mutters. 

And then, on Friday in the first week I’ve managed to make it home for dinner every night (Tuesday was a close call, but I pulled it off at the last minute), I get an email from Helene just as I’m about to pack up and head home. 

_ Darling _ , it says,  _ come upstairs before you head home, if you would. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent _ .

For a minute, I consider pretending I hadn’t seen it. If it was Bexley, I would have been out of here like a shot. But Helene so rarely sends me these kinds of messages, so “rather urgent” in Helene-speak might mean catastrophe. Hell, Helene even being here on a Friday night might spell catastrophe. Not going up means a likely disruption to my weekend--if not in the form of the actual need to return to the office, then in worrying over what will await me on Monday morning--so with only the  _ slightest  _ sigh, I grab my bag and my jacket and head up to the top floor. 

Now that I don’t spend every day up there, the infinite mirror effect of Helene and Bexley’s floor gives me a jolt of surprise every time, almost as if my brain insists on telling itself that the effect couldn’t possibly be  _ quite  _ as jarring as I remember, only to be reminded that, no, actually, it’s kind of worse. It’s mostly dark up here tonight, and I look around in confusion. The view through the large windows at one end of the atrium is actually quite nice at this time of night, I note abstractly; when I was Helene’s assistant, I spent plenty of late evenings up here, but little time looking out the windows, as that would have meant looking past my archnemesis, Joshua Templeman.

“Helene?” I call. No answer. I poke my head into her office, only to find it empty. Well, that’s weird. I drop my things inside the door and am about to check my phone to see the time stamp on her email--maybe she sent it earlier than I realized and then left, assuming I too had already headed home?--when I hear, “Hey there, Shortcake.”

I whirl around to find Josh, leaning casually in the door of Bexley’s office. He’s wearing the robin’s-egg blue shirt (“the Lucy shirt,” he referred to it once), and has his hands tucked in his pockets. If not for the way he’s smiling at me, warm and soft and familiar, it would be like the last year and change had never happened. 

“Hey,” I say back when my heart has stopped trying to escape my body. “What are you doing here?” In the chaos of the last month or so, his schedule has completely moved out of my brain. He definitely could have had some kind of meeting I didn’t know about. 

Josh doesn’t answer my question, moving instead to perch on the edge of his old desk. “God, this office is ugly,” he comments. “I obviously hated it when I worked here, but I can’t believe I sort of loved it, too.” 

“You did?” I ask skeptically as I move towards him. A thousand Lucys approach a thousand Joshuas. 

“Well,” he smiles, and there’s something odd in his expression that triggers a similarly odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I worked with this gorgeous woman who hated me.”

“What an idiot,” I tease. We’re within touching distance now, but Josh doesn’t move from his perch. He reaches out one hand and touches, very lightly, one errant curl. 

“Nah,” he disagrees, wrinkling his nose. “That’s the worst part. She was brilliant and funny and, yeah, okay, let herself get absolutely  _ steamrolled  _ by her coworkers--”

“Hey,” I interject, shoving against his shoulder. He catches my hand in his. A beat passes and the odd feeling--a sort of anticipation, or suspicion that I’m not yet ready to trust--intensifies. “I’m not actually meeting Helene, am I?” I ask haltingly. 

Josh shakes his head, the fond smile back in place. He’s smiled at me like that a million times, but today it makes my chest tight. I clench my fingertips tighter where he is still holding my hand against his chest and take a step forward until I’m standing between his legs. 

“I should have fallen in love with you somewhere more scenic, Lucinda,” he says quietly. I’m wearing heels; he’s leaning. It brings our faces close. I could kiss him so easily, and part of me feels like if I don’t, I’ll explode, but I can’t fracture the anticipation. “But this makes sense. I was such a mess when we met, and it made me so furious how badly I wanted you for so long.” We both inhale at the same time and my chest doesn’t  _ quite  _ brush his, but comes close enough that I swear I can feel him through the charged air. 

“Josh--” I say, but he gives a brief head shake, and I let him continue. 

“You did me a favor, making me work for it, Shortcake. God knows it didn’t feel like it at the time--Christ, that day you wore that short dress was the best worst day of my life, I was terrified I was going to stand up and you’d see something that would give you a real reason to complain to HR--” my laugh is sharp and delighted “--but at some point, working for it, trying to convince you that I was worth it…” He clears his throat. I am a miasma of emotion and I want to feel them all. “Well, it kind of let me convince me that I was worth it.”

“Josh.” I move my hand up from his chest so that my fingers touch his cheek. “You are absolutely worth it.” 

He presses a kiss to the center of my palm, closing his eyes. I blink rapidly a few times. “I wouldn’t change any of it, Shortcake.” I want to tell him I wouldn’t either, but I am doing my dead best not to start crying, so I just nod. “Coming home to you is the best part of my day, every day. I don’t know how I got so lucky, to find someone who fights for me, and sees all of me and loves me anyway, and who is so wonderful and beautiful and brilliant--” his voice is thick and I lose my battle against tears; Josh wipes my cheek with his thumb, which of course only makes me cry harder “--and I  _ promise _ , Lucy, that I will spend the rest of my life working to still be worth it, to make you happy, to make us both happy.” He uses a hand on my waist to move me back a step and pulls his other hand--the one he hadn’t moved this whole time, I now realize--out of his pocket. He’s holding a small black box. “Lucinda Hutton, will you marry me?”

I am fully weeping now. I clasp both hands over my mouth as he opens the box. The ring is delicate and gold, the center a trio of stones: a center emerald, cut in a narrow oval laid lengthwise, flanked by two sapphires. It isn’t large or flashy or traditional. I love it so much I can barely breathe. The whole thing is perfect. 

“Oh my god, Josh,” I say, swiping at my face and ignoring the traces of makeup that come away. “I love you so much.” 

I reach out to kiss him, but he cups the side of my face with the hand not holding the ring, fingers twined in my hair, and holds me back. “I think I'm reading this right, but I’m going to need you to actually answer--”

“Yes, yes, of course, yes,” I gasp, and I catch a split second of his brilliant smile before I launch myself at him. The hand at my face is now pulling me closer, and his other arm is cradled against the small of my back and I am crying again but I can’t stop kissing him to wipe them away and I dig my fingers into his hair and and an abstract part of my brain thinks of the thousand reflected Lucys and the thousand reflected Joshes and they seem perfectly right because this kind of feeling deserves to be stretched into infinity: happy happy happy happy. One Lucy is not enough to feel it all. 

Eventually we have to break--just a little, I can’t stop touching him, not yet--for air and Josh is smiling against my mouth as he asks, “Do you want to put on the ring?” 

I gasp again and break our kiss. “Oh god, yes, yes.” I feel a little dizzy, but in a bubbly, champagne sort of way. We part only enough so that we can get hands between us, and Josh takes the ring out of the box and slides in on my finger. It’s so gorgeous I think I could die if I weren’t enjoying being alive in this moment quite so much. 

“Now, I know it’s not the traditional engagement ring, but when I saw it it reminded me of you, but if you want a more regular one, I swear I won’t be mad or upset--”

“Josh,” I interrupt. “I love it. Not as much as I love you, but--” I wave my hand vaguely, and his eyes track the glint of the ring on my finger “--in the same ballpark.”

Josh’s smile is blinding. My cheeks hurt from the force of mine. We kiss again, this one sweeter, softer, but no less emotional; tears threaten again. When we break apart, I lean my head in the crook of his neck, and he wraps his arms around me, pressing a long kiss to the top of my head before leaning his cheek there. We stand like this for a minute, a frozen perfect instant of just feeling him against me, of being together, when a thought occurs to me and I have to chuckle. 

“What?” Josh asks. 

I pick my head up and look around. “I just can’t believe you proposed to me at  _ work _ .” 

Josh nips playfully at my jaw. “Oh, hush, Shortcake. I did consider other places--like, so many other places--but I kept coming back to this nightmare hall of mirrors. It just seemed right.” 

“Just--” I’m still laughing “--I can’t stop thinking about how it would go if I told  _ literally anyone else  _ who works here how romantic you are.”

“Well, I’m sure some of them still think that you’re in a hostage situation,” Josh comments dryly. His eye roll makes me think that he doesn’t mind this as much as he once did, that maybe now that we promised forever-- _ holy shit _ , it hits me again, we’re getting  _ married _ \--one more of those worries has been put to rest. The thought produces another effervescent bubble of joy. 

“I’m assuming Helene was in on it, at least,” I concede. 

“And Amanda,” he confirms. I quirk an eyebrow. “She was going to run interference if you tried to go home before I could get here.” 

“You planned it all out,” I say, which earns me a sardonic look. 

“No, Shortcake,” he says dryly. “I thought I’d just buy a ring and see what happened.”

On cue, we both glance at the ring, and his deadpan breaks. “We’re  _ engaged _ ,” I whisper. Josh kisses my hand and, honestly, I am lucky my knees don’t buckle. 

Then, Josh looks around, something seeming to click. “Well there was one flaw in my plan,” he says. 

“Nuh uh.” I snatch back my hand, clutching it to my hand protectively. How dare he, I feel irrationally, insult my perfect proposal and my perfect--oh my  _ god _ \--fiancé? “Zero flaws.”

But when Josh looks at me there is an eager glint in his eye. “We are  _ far  _ too far from home,” he growls into my ear in a tone that makes me shiver. 

“One flaw,” I agree fervently. 

Hand-in-hand, we rush for the elevator, Josh snagging my bag and jacket in his free hand as we move. 

The second the doors slide closed, I launch myself at him again. “Did you ever think,” I gasp between kisses; Josh moves his way down to my throat, which makes it very, very hard to think, “that you would be making out in this elevator again?”

“Shortcake,” he mumbles, hiking one hand under my ass to haul me up and press me against the elevator wall, which makes it very, very,  _ very  _ hard to think. I try to remember a time when I found his size, his casual strength, anything other than unbelievably hot. I can’t. “I didn’t think I’d be making out in this elevator the first time.”

I bite the spot behind his ear and his whole body tightens against me for a minute: hands, hips, mouth. “I called it The Kissing Game,” I confess, and Josh’s startled laughter is almost as much a turn-on as the kissing itself. I am so very in love with him. 

“My little weirdo. Did you win?” he asks, squeezing the underside of my thigh. 

“Big time.” I sound breathless. 

Just as my body is trying to override my brain’s insistence that  _ no  _ we absolutely  _ cannot  _ take of  _ any  _ clothes  _ in the elevator _ in the building  _ where I work _ , the elevator reaches the parking garage, and Josh grabs our stuff, wraps my coat around my shoulders, and half leads, half drags me towards his car, parked next to mine. I practically have to jog--no mean feat in heels--to keep up with him, and by the time we get to the car, I am giggling like mad. Josh’s hair is mussed, my lipstick is on his mouth, his throat, and he is grinning boyishly. He lifts me bodily into the passenger seat. “No more distractions,” he says, mock-sternly, holding up a finger between us. I try to bite it. 

It is quite possibly a miracle that we make it home in one piece. I cannot stop laughing and reaching out to touch Josh on his nape, his shoulder, his thigh, and he keeps glancing over at me and grinning and grinning. “Shortcake,” he admonishes over and over. 

“Don’t call me Shortcake,” I try to grumble--it’s interrupted by more laughter--because tonight is Josh and Lucy’s greatest hits. Josh grabs my hand and kisses it. 

When we get to the lobby of our building, Josh stops short and sweeps me into his arms so suddenly that I gasp. 

“I think that’s for after you’re actually married,” I tell him, his long strides, the smell of him, the whole riotous evening making me feel breathless. 

“Ah,” he corrects, “but this is how you got in here the first time, don’t you remember?” 

I hadn’t thought of it, but he’s right--I had run and jumped into his arms, trusting him to catch me even when I still thought that we were some kind of enemies. And, just as he had that night, he carries me all the way into the apartment, stopping to drop our bags in that same bin we still keep beside the door, toeing off his shoes without letting me go. Only tonight, instead of depositing me in the living room, he continues straight into the bedroom, laying me down gently on the edge of the bed, pressing me back so that I’m lying flat, my legs dangling over the edge. 

The look in his eye makes me a very delicious sort of nervous. 

“Isn’t it fun to play our firsts again, Lucinda?” A lock of hair has flopped over his forehead and it gives him a rakish look when paired with the crooked smile he wears, even if the effect is somewhat distorted by the frequent flickers of happiness that break through. He presses my hands over my head and holds them there, looming over me but making no further contact. When I wriggle a little and get a brush of his knee against mine, he brackets me a little more firmly and skims his nose down my cheek. “I had a  _ lot  _ of fun that first time.”

I think back to his leisurely exploration in the hotel, the night of Patrick and Mindy’s wedding, the way he mapped all of me, most of it while he still had all his clothes on. I think I whimper a little, and I’m not sure if it’s from the memory or from the anticipation right now. 

“Josh,” I moan. “I absolutely cannot wait that long.” 

“You underestimate yourself, Shortcake.” He’s kissing down my neck now, and I try to remind myself that I have been kissed before--kissed by Josh before--many, many times, even, and that I should not be this eager. But my body doesn’t care. I am breathless and burning. He’s barely even touching me and it is torture. “Besides, I realized I forgot something.” Josh shifts so he’s only using one hand to hold both of mine and uses the other to unbutton my blouse. 

“Forgot something?” I echo. His tongue traces a pattern right where my neck meets my shoulder, and my body clenches in response. For an instant, I’m able to feel his stomach, held taut by the effort of holding himself above me, and have a faint, desperate hope that he’ll tire, that he’ll have to lie down, press himself against me. 

Then I remember that I’ve been working like mad the past month and so Josh has been spending more time than usual at the gym, which means that I’m an absolute goner. 

“Mmhm,” he mumbles, kissing along the edge of my bra. “Can you believe, for all my planning--” his voice is so steady, but I can feel his ragged breaths “--that I forgot to get down on one knee?”

“Oh,” I hear myself say. I can’t focus on anything but Josh’s one wandering hand, which winds up one leg, propping my heel on the edge of the bed before moving up to toy with the top of my stocking. “That’s okay.”

Josh’s dark chuckle spells trouble. “Of course it’s okay, Shortcake. It just means I get to make up for it now.” He releases my hands and sinks to his knees in front of me. His mouth replaces his hand at the top of my stocking, and he kisses there, moving towards the inside of my thigh with his lips as he slides my underwear down my legs. I am agog at his ability to multitask when I am barely able to unitask and that one task is not exploding. My body cannot decide if I am a boneless pile of goo or as tight as a bowstring. 

“Josh,” I think I am saying. “Josh. Please. Fuck. Please.” One of my hands is in his hair and somehow the other one has ended up in my hair, gripping tightly because I am  _ losing my mind _ . 

I feel the warm huff of his breath just a second before I feel his mouth on me, teasing fingers joining in a moment later. I have never been so turned on in my  _ life _ ; I come faster than I ever have before. I dig one heel into his back, and he grabs the underside of my other thigh tight, and I am gasping something that might be his name and might be the sound of my entire soul leaving my body, because fuck-- _ fuck _ \--I love him and he is beautiful and clever and lovely and brilliant and  _ mine _ . 

“Holy shit,” I say when I can think and speak again. 

With much effort, I prop myself on my elbows so I can see Josh, still kneeling between my legs, lazily nuzzling the inside of my leg, his eyes on me. “You are so beautiful, Lucinda,” he says. “I can hardly stand it.” 

“Come  _ here _ , then,” I make a grab for him, but he dodges easily. Of all the things in the world, he is still wearing his tie, and the sight begins heating me up again. 

“Now, now, Shortcake.” He is really enjoying himself. So am I, obviously, but he is so smug and self satisfied that I can’t decide if it makes me want to tackle him or just give in and enjoy the manifold benefits. “A man only proposes once. Don’t rush me.” He reaches one arm up to push me back gently; I flop back.

Manifold benefits it is, then. 

The second time is slower--god, I think, semi-hysterically, it could hardly be faster--and luxuriant and soft and it goes on until I think that I am absolutely going to cry or die or both if he does not  _ take of his goddamn clothes  _ and get on the bed with me. As I am trying to think of a way to say that that fits the romantic mood he finally--and looking oh, so, goddamned smug--stands up, wipes his face on his sleeve ( _ oh no _ , I think, because my entire brain has left the building by this point,  _ I hope he doesn’t ruin that shirt _ ), and unknots his tie, undoes the buttons of his shirt, undoes his belt. I realize dazedly that I am still half wearing my clothes but am much too far gone to do anything about it, so Josh does it for me, easing my skirt down, unhooking my bra. At this point my limbs are working again, and I reach for him because I cannot press myself close enough, I will never get enough, not even in the lifetime that we’ve promised each other. 

“God, I love you,” I say to him as we press together, and oh, he feels incredible, sex should not be this good. “Let’s do this forever.” 

“Yes,” he agrees breathlessly. 

“Yes,” I say back.” 

When he stiffens and gasps below me I grasp him even tighter, pressing his mouth against mine, breathing with him, because all his parts are mine to love and hold. We roll over until we’re lying side by side, my legs still wrapped around his waist, and I rub my cheek against his chest. “My darling tyrant,” I mutter into his skin. 

Josh laughs. “My wonderful nutjob,” he replies into my hair. 

_Yes,_ I think sleepily, worn down by my perfect night. _Let’s do this forever_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about these dorks in love so tysm for indulging me while I just like endlessly write about them???


End file.
